


Where You Gonna Run To?

by Geneva_Lee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drinking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, M/M, PTSD, Post-Reichenbach, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:52:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geneva_Lee/pseuds/Geneva_Lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes life one day at a time, trying to put the pieces back together. Everything changes when a comment appears on his blog three years after he stopped writing. The comment is from someone calling themselves Richard Brook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, Sinnerman

          John drank in the scenery of the bar he was in.  It was loud and crowded, a typical weekend.  He sat not far from a group of schoolboys that elicited old memories of his youth, the rowdy nights that passed in a blur, but he was assured had been the best nights of his life.  (How many of my best nights consisted of running across town with a consulting detective?)  His table was in a corner, somewhat away from the action, but giving him a good view of everything.  A pretty girl had her on eye him.  He hadn’t failed to notice.  She was all smiles, nice face, and far too young for him.  She was exactly the kind of girl he needed to relax with.  She gave a little wave, and John returned a smile.

            “John!”

            He looked up to see Lestrade standing before him, holding his pint.

            “Good to see you, Greg,” said John, forcing a smile.

            “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” said Lestrade apologetically.

            “Oh, no, I’m fine here,” said John, motioning to his beer.

            “Yeah, and I saw that girl over at the bar eyeing you,” he said with a mischievous smile.

            “Oh, she’s not really my type.”

            “Really?”  Lestrade snuck a casual glance over to her.  “She looks sort of like—well—familiar,” he added hastily.  (Does she really look that much like him?)  (Is that why I’m interested?)

            “So how’re things down at the Yard?” asked John lightly, as if the previous moment hadn’t occurred.

            “’Bout the same as usual,” said Lestrade, taking a sip of beer.  “Bodies keep showing up.  I keep arresting people.  Donovan is still a pain in my ass.  Smug as hell ever since—“

            He cut himself off and stared down at his beer, eyes shut.  John sighed, feeling his heart sink.  He couldn’t remember the last time the two of them had had a normal conversation—not that the circumstances under which they knew each other had ever been close to normal in the first place.  In the past three years, they had met up like this now and again.  Sporadically, occasionally, but Lestrade had tried very hard to keep in touch.  John didn’t know if it was genuine concern or some kind of misplaced guilt.

            “Well, she thinks she was right, doesn’t she?” said John.

            “John, you have to know—“

            “Greg, you’ve apologized enough.”

            Lestrade sighed and said, “Yes, I’ve apologized, but I’m not ever sure it’ll be enough.”

            John said nothing.  He pursed his lips and took a long drink of his beer.

            “How’re the kids?” he asked, wanting the subject to change.  It would, but John never knew for how long with Lestrade—maybe a moment, or a few weeks, or months.  However, the conversation always came back around.

            “Oh, same as always,” said Lestrade, a small smile gracing his face.  “Raising hell, making my life difficult, getting into all sorts of troubles.”

            “Sounds about right.”

            “Yeah, and my youngest reminds me a lot of Sher—“

            So it was a moment, that night.  John wondered what it was about that day that made it so difficult for Lestrade to stay off the subject.  John had done a very good job of not discussing it; he had made it a point to _not_ talk about it.  Lestrade seemed to bring it up every time they were together.  Whether this was by accident or design, John never knew, and he never cared to ask.

            “She’s real smart,” continued Lestrade.  “Very keen, got a good eye for things.  I have a feeling she’s going to be a pain in my ass,” he added with a laugh.

            John said nothing and drank his beer.  It saddened him to know that the joys of family life would never be part of his life.  He had resigned himself to that fact years ago.  He didn’t even have much of a connection with the family he did have.  The average person probably defined themselves through their family, or a close group of friends that functioned liked their family.  (Why was he the one person who defined me?)

            As those thoughts left John’s head, he realized that Lestrade had been talking for a few moments, and John had paid him absolutely no attention.  He nodded, as if he had been listening, and wondered if Lestrade had noticed.  If he had, he said nothing of it.

            “So what’s new in your life, John?” he asked casually.

            “Still working at the surgery,” he replied.  “Not much else going on.  It keeps me busy.  We see tons of people everyday.”

            “You ever think about something different?  Going back to Bart’s, maybe?”

            “Nah, I’d spend half my time teaching.  Not sure I could handle that.”

            “Prefer to be in the thick of things, eh?”

            John shrugged and said nothing.

            “I can see you being the man of action type, of course,” said Lestrade, “what with being in the army and…”

            Lestrade stopped, and John shut his eyes.  It wouldn’t be so bad if he weren’t so damn obvious about it.  Every time they saw each other, it somehow came up, in some way or another.  Sometimes, just once, but then there were moments like this where it seemed to dominate the whole visit.  John could have shrugged it off, could have moved past it, but he always had to harp on it.

            “…and I really hate to do this.”

            “What?”

            John snapped from his thought process to see Lestrade standing and pulling on his coat.  He was unaware of how long he’d been thinking about it, but then, that must be why Lestrade was leaving.  It had been a long time since John had been a fun person to be around, and just the slightest mention of Sherlock sent his mind flying away.

            “One of the kids is a bit ill,” he said apologetically.  “The wife is fine without me, but she keeps texting asking a few things, so I think she needs my help, just isn’t asking.”

            “Oh, yeah, another time.”  John plastered a grin on his face, and it was probably obvious from how wide it was that he didn’t mean it.  “Just let me know, yeah?”

            “Yeah, of course,” said Lestrade.

He looked regretful, but anxious, making John realize that it was less his sick child, and more of John’s demeanor that was sending Lestrade away.  (Is he afraid of losing those precious moments?)  (Why did I have to tell him he was a machine?)

“Maybe in a few weeks, when the kids are with their mum again.”

They said their farewells and promised to meet up again soon.  John continued nursing his pint, planning only on finishing the one.  But one pint turned into two, three, and suddenly his head was fuzzy.  The world turned a bit as he looked around, his eyes roving over the bar again.  He spied the girl who had been eyeing him earlier.  She was leaning over to talk to one of her friends, cleavage spilling out about.  It captured his gaze, and when John managed to pull away, they made eye contact again.  He watched her as she sauntered over to his table.  His mind tried to move, but the alcohol slowed it to the point that all he could think about was cleavage and legs and curly hair and blue eyes and cheekbones.

            “This seat taken?” she asked, cocking her head lazily, some kind of fruity cocktail in her hand.

            “Not at all.”

            John smiled.  She seemed nice enough, although she looked to be barely out of university; perfect teeth, made-up, nice lipstick that made her lips look large and tempting.  She wore a fair amount of jewelry, the kind that he would fiddle with in the cab back home.  He had it planned out in his mind.  He would tease her with light kisses and strokes, make her laugh, make her want him, and then in the morning, he would be gone, and he hoped she wouldn’t care.  He didn’t want to hurt her.  He tried not to think about that. (Why would I care about a stranger?)

            Caring was the problem.  It always was.  He had cared so much that he tried to forget with a night of drunken debauchery the likes of which he hadn’t encountered since his school days.  She seemed up for it, so what was the problem?  The problem, of course, was the he didn’t want to shag her.  He just wanted to do anything to forget, even if it was just for a little while.

            They laughed and flirted.  He was charming, smiling, making her laugh, doing exactly what he knew would work on her.  She had approached him, so that made it easier.  If she thought he was attractive enough, and if she had a few more drinks, then it would be easy.  Simple.

            It was almost too easy really.  It was getting late, she should be getting home, but oh, how a woman like her should have someone to take her home.  Wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.  Needs someone to protect her.  Had he mentioned he was in the military?  Now there is a line he hadn’t used in a while. Women seemed so impressed.  Smart and brave, the kind of guy you would take home at least once, and who the hell knows, might stick around for a bit.

            All according to plan.  Her hand was on his knee, he had an arm around her.  A kiss on the cheek here, a light stroke of her wrist there.  Her face was flushed, pupils dilated, just enough alcohol in their systems that neither of them really cared what would happen in the morning.  All that mattered was that moment in the cab, not anything else going on.  That was the point, wasn’t it?  She was fresh out of law school, trying to make her way up in the world.  She needed to blow off steam.  He needed anything to make him forget.

            The problem was he really didn’t want to. (Would it make it easier if I did?)

            As soon as they entered her flat, he knew it was a mistake.  She was kissing him, and her lips were so soft and so divine, but he knew that he didn’t want her lips.  He thought he needed any pair of lips to make him feel better.  How wrong he was.  His mind told him to stop.  This was a betrayal.  (How can I betray someone whose dead, someone whose lips I never kissed?)

            “I’m sorry.”

            John backed away quickly.  She looked startled.  She said it was okay, put her arms around him, kissed his cheek, and told him they could go a little slower.  More rushed apologies, picked his jumper off the floor, and left her flat as fast as he possibly could.  He wasn’t the one-night stand type, he told her, he couldn’t do it like this, couldn’t do it at all.  It wasn’t fair.  He cared too much. (Why couldn’t he forget?)  (Why is it so hard to walk straight?)

            Once on the street, John vomited into the first trash can he saw across the road.  He thought it would never stop.  The poison exited him quickly, uncontrollably, and when it finished, he collapsed on the pavement, gasping for breath, the world spinning around him.  He laid back, staring up at the sky.  A few stars peeked through the clouds.  He smiled wistfully, remembering a detective’s comments about appreciating the beauty.  (Why couldn’t I appreciate the beauty of that girl upstairs with his lips and body?)

John sat up, looking around him.  The street was deserted.  Why did this neighborhood seem so familiar?  He tried to focus his vision, but the world kept spinning around and around.  It took a herculean effort to pull himself up, and he had to stand for several seconds to keep himself from vomiting again.  His hands gripped the edge of the trash can, and he stared at a pillar of a house, trying to focus his vision.  At that moment, the pieces fell into place.  His eyes fell upon the sign of the Diogenes Club.

How an upstart lawyer could afford a flat in this neighborhood was anybody’s guess.  He felt a surge of regret at leaving a rich girl’s place, but he was drunk enough to stop caring about her almost instantly. He smiled and stumbled up the steps of the club.  Mycroft probably wasn’t there, but he didn’t care.  He never cared much anymore.

But you do, said a nagging voice in the back of his head.  You care so much, and you’re trying to hard to forget, not to be human.  (Not that easy, is it?)

“Mycroft!”

He nearly tripped over his own feet entering Mycroft’s…office?  Talking room?  John was surprised to find the remaining Holmes brother there at that time of night.

“Little late to be here, isn’t it?” he asked loudly as the door fell shut behind him.

“Little strange for you to be here, John.” Mycroft looked him up and down. “Have a seat.”  He motioned to the chair before him, not looking at all surprised that John had just drunkenly stumbled into the club at that time of night completely pissed.

John threw himself in the chair, staring Mycroft down as he poured John a cup of tea.

“Got anything a bit stronger? I know you’re a scotch fan.”

“I think you’ve had quite enough for tonight.” Mycroft held out the cup. “Here.”

John sat up and took the cup.

“So what is it that brings you here this time of night?”

“Shagging a young woman who happened to be in the vicinity.”

“You were in her flat less than five minutes.  Either she’s very disappointed or you didn’t actually share her bed.”

“Disappointment either way.” He took a sip. “How would you know, anyway?”

“CCTV caught you going into the building.  I happened to notice you leave rather soon, and you were just across the street.” Mycroft paused, staring at John as he set down his cup of tea. “So what brings you here in your intoxicated state at this time of night?”

“I told you.”

“I don’t mean the neighborhood I mean to me.”

“I was in a bad mood, since I found myself unable to be the kind of dick who has a one-time shag.  I realized where I was and thought what the hell.  I like irritating you.”

“Why are you here?” asked Mycroft in a polite voice, although his eyes carried obvious signs of disgruntlement.

John shrugged.  Truth be told, he had planned on shouting at Mycroft about how it was all his fault, how his life was ruined, how he sometimes put his gun in his mouth, wondering what it would feel like to pull the trigger, and why he cared so damn much that he couldn’t bear to do it.

“I was having a bad day. I thought I’d make it worse.”

Mycroft sighed and put his face in his hands.  As successful as Operation: Piss Off Mycroft was, John suddenly regretted it.  He hadn’t seen Mycroft since a few days after Sherlock died.  The lines on his face had deepened, and he had lost weight.  His suit was nearly hanging off of him.  For a man usually impeccably dressed, and looking smart as he manipulated world politics, it was unlike him not to have had his suits taken in.  As Mycroft dropped his hand, John saw a flash of something in his eyes, (Was it sadness, regret, exhaustion, fear, all, or none?) but a second later, it was gone.

“Unless you’d like to move this conversation in a purposeful direction, I’ll call for a car to take you home.”

“Nope. It won’t take me home.”

“Yes, it will.”

“No, it’ll take me the shitty flat I live in.” John stared off into space, the urge to vomit rising again. “That’s not home.” (Do I know where home is?)

 

-o-

 

            When John awoke the next morning, he felt a variety of different things, although they were feelings he often encountered; shame, self-loathing, regret, the usual cocktail of depression.  However, his normal cornucopia of feelings in life post-Baker Street was accompanied by physical ailments that he hadn’t experience in quite a long time.  Every time he moved his head even an inch, it felt as if it nearly burst open.  The nausea rocking his stomach threatened to exit him in waves of vomit (Haven’t I thrown up enough?), and his whole body felt as if it had been put through a meat processor.  Was it possible for skin to actually hurt from drinking too much?  That was certainly how it felt at the moment.

            He was lying on top of the covers, still in last night’s clothing, and feeling worse than he had in weeks.  Not only did his body hate him, but he hated himself even more than usual.  His pathetic attempt at forgetting his feelings worked for maybe a few minutes with that woman, but he hadn’t gone through with it.  To be honest, he never really wanted to.  He had known it wouldn’t work all along, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

            He reached for his phone lying on the bedside table.  There was a text from Lestrade asking if he made it home okay, then one from later this morning asking if he was alive.  He also had a text from Mycroft, which was baffling in and of itself.  John only recalled bits and pieces of their conversation, but he was quite certain that he had spent most of it insulting the elder Holmes brother.

            It took a while for him to gather the strength to pop a few painkillers and step into the shower.  The hot water was soothing on his tired muscles.  (When did I get so old?)  After giving himself a head rub with shampoo, he began to wash himself.  John sighed.  As he cleansed, another thought popped into his head.  He began to think of the girl from the bar (What was her name?), and it didn’t take long for him to become aroused.  He told himself that she was the one who was getting him off.  She had dark, curly hair; and the most gorgeous, light blue eyes he had ever seen, with an intense, piercing gaze.  They sat above high cheekbones, elegant lips, such a defined cupid’s bow.  His hand gripped himself and began to move, and he moaned, his voice echoing off the shower walls.  He imagined what it would be like to moan into that elegant neck, to leave marks on it, to let the world know that he had beheld that body.  He imagined what it would be like to grip those dark curls in the throes of ecstasy.  He imagined what it would be like to suck on that cupid’s bow and to taste it with his tongue.

            As John came, he told himself that he got off on the girl from the bar.  That voice in the back of his head told him it wasn’t true.  Normally, he told the voice to sod off.  But that morning, as he washed away the signs of his release with the soap, relishing in the relaxing feeling of the water, and the endorphins pulsing through his brain, he didn’t really care. (Did he ever want me too?)

 

-o-

 

            Several hours passed before John felt like a functioning human being again.  The headache eased after several hours, and he managed to swallow some eggs and a sports drink before spending most of the day laying around to watch the telly.  He fired off a text to Lestrade saying he was all right and deleted the well wishes from Mycroft.  John was surprised to find a text from an unknown number on his phone.  It read: _Gorgeous sunset in the American southwest.  You’d appreciate it._

            Brow furrowed, he quickly replied: _Wrong number.  Sorry._

            John lazily scrolled through his emails, none of which held much interest for him.  A short message from Harry detailed her latest romantic tryst (“She’s really great! You should meet her!), a few words from Mrs. Hudson (“You must come around for tea.”), an apology from Lestrade (“The wife was having a problem, you know how women can be…”), and a comment notification from his blog.

            John did a triple take when he saw the email.  He opened and read it several times, shook his head, and then read through it another ten times.  The comment came from the second-to-last post of his blog.  While he had never shut the blog down, he had only updated it once since Sherlock had left him.  There had seemed no point to it anymore.

The comment simply read, “I’m so sorry.”

It was signed Richard Brook.


	2. Only Happy When It Rains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thinks this is insane and probably won't end well. So he does it anyway.

            Mycroft had stood at the window of 221b, staring out into the street, while John was in his armchair, staring off into space.  He had had no desire to speak with Mycroft, but he had insisted on speaking with John.  Sherlock had died intestate, and now Mycroft wished to discuss the allocation of his possessions.  There were many things that he thought John would like to have.

            “I know this is a lot to take so soon,” Mycroft had said gently, “but I assure you, it’s in your best interests.”

            “I don’t really care to think about Sherlock’s finances right now,” John had murmured quietly, staring at the fire Mrs. Hudson had kindled for him.

            “Moriarty was found with a bullet in his brain on the rooftop.  The bullet passed straight through his skull.  If he does wake up, he’ll have irreparable brain damage.  I’ve brought some of his scans, if you’re curious.”

            “I’m not.”

            “Nevertheless.”

            Mycroft had left a file of CT scans for John to examine.  He had glanced at them eventually, and he had been quite certain that Moriarty would never wake up.  Even if he did, his cognitive function would be severely impaired in god knows how many ways.  But here was a man, claiming to be his ersatz alter ego, leaving comments on his blog.  John immediately clicked his name and fired off an email to the commenter:

            _Listen, I don’t know who you are.  Maybe you think this is funny and some kind of fucked up idea of a joke.  But it’s not.  I better not hear from you again._

            John slammed his laptop shut and began to pace about his flat.  Not that there was much room for him to pace in.  His flat consisted of a very small kitchen connected to a nook with a dining area, which was the same room as his living room.  A door to the side led to his bedroom and bathroom.  The walls were white, and the carpet was a bland off white color with brown spots.  Nothing homely about it.  Not like 221b.  That flat had been cozy and warm, a place you could come home to.  This was not his home.  It was the place where he ate and tried to sleep and watched shitty telly shows. (Why can’t I ever sleep here?)

            John ran his hands through his hair.  This pacing did him no good.  His mind whirred at a thousand miles per hour, and his heart wouldn’t stop racing.  He grabbed his jacket and burst out of the flat.  He wandered all over London.  Normally, walking was one of the small comforts he had.  While it never cleared his mind of the sadness, he at least relished the feeling of fresh air in his lungs, or pavement moving beneath his feet.  But that afternoon, he found no solace in his usual routes.  It was while standing in a park, staring up at the cloudy sky as it began to rain, that he realized he had nowhere to go, and no one to go to. (Why oh why oh why god why)

            It seemed he had no choice but to return to his dismal flat.  John let his body rest against the door, taking deep breaths as the rain dripped from his hair and clothes onto the floor.  He wanted nothing more than to curl up into a fetal position and cry his heart out.  For a moment, he tried.  A deep, shuddering breath raked through his body, but no tears came. (Where did they go?)  (Is it possible to run out of tears?)

            John stripped himself of the damp clothing and got into his pajamas.  It was early, but he didn’t have anyone to look decent for.  Part of him yearned to turn on his laptop, to find out who had sent him that message.  Instead, he busied himself tidying up the flat.  That took him about five minutes.  He resumed his pacing, but all he could think of was that blasted email.

            “Fuck it,” he muttered irritability.

            Returning to the table, he flipped open the laptop and opened his email.  A reply sat in his inbox.  He stared at the sender name.  _Richard Brook_.  Richard fucking Brook.  Someone had gone through an awful lot of trouble to fuck with him, and he was going to make sure that they were sorry. (How do you plan on doing that, hmm?)  He opened the response.

            _Please hear me out.  I awoke in a hospital three years ago with no recollection of who I was.  I’ve been trying to put the pieces together, and I was afraid I could never return to acting.  Then a man came to see me, explaining some terrible details from my past.  He told me I wasn’t Richard Brook, but he couldn’t tell me all of the details.  He said if I needed more information to go to your blog._

_Dr. Watson, please.  This man told me that I hurt many people, you most of all.  I really need to talk to you.  I want to do anything I can to make amends.  I need to find out who I really was._

            John took a deep breath.  He stared at the screen for several minutes, unsure of how to reply.  The scenario played out in his mind.  This stranger, claiming to be Richard Brook, would exchange emails with him and get John to feel sorry for him.  They would agree to meet, and John would help him piece together his past.  Except Richard Brook would never show up to meet him.  It would be a prank.  Some kind of twisted joke someone thought would be funny.  (But what if it’s not a joke?)

            He tried to remember Moriarty’s brain scans.  The image wouldn’t form in his mind.  However, he did remember what he thought upon viewing them.

            _Severe trauma.  Possible damage to the cerebellum and brain stem.  Most likely to be in vegetative state.  If awoken, the patient’s brain damage will be catastrophic.  No way to know for sure what sort of neurological problems there will be._

            It was possible, he mused.  The brain was the most complex organ.  John vividly remembered crying after taking the neurology exam in medical school.  He occasionally read medical journals after school, and he always skipped over the neurological ones.  Neurology had pissed him off too much, left its own kind of academic scars.  Regardless, he knew that miraculous things had happened to people who’d been shot or hit in the head.  People survived when they should’ve have; their brains still functioned when they should be a pile of mush.  Could it be possible that through some medical miracle, Moriarty’s bullet had given him brain damage and with it, total amnesia?  Had it been a miraculous lobotomy?  (What if?)

            It required several more deep breaths in and out before John could muster up the nerve to reply.  He had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he was going to regret this, but at this point in his life, he had nothing else to lose.

 

-o-

 

            John had downed two cups of coffee and kindly flagged down the waitress for a third.  She eyed him oddly as she refilled his mug but didn’t say anything.  He couldn’t help but check her out as she left.  (Why so guilty?)  A man’s libido could never be completely satiated, he thought to himself.

            Richard Brook entered the café.  No, Jim Moriarty entered the café.  Well, he had Jim Moriarty’s face.  Technically.  But nothing about the way this man walked indicated that he was the criminal mastermind who had tried to blow him up.  No, this man was far different.  There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was rather unkempt.  He wore jeans, a pair of trainers, a ratty looking t-shirt, and a cardigan that was falling off of one shoulder.  He rubbed the back of his neck as he entered, looking apprehensive and unsure of himself.  Very unlike the Moriarty John had met.  Moriarty had been the most ridiculous, flamboyant human being he had encountered, oozing confidence. No one should have taken him seriously, but he had an underlying danger to him that always kept John on edge.  The man who entered the café looked like he couldn’t hurt a fly.  If anything, a fly might damage him.  However, he did resemble the actor who entered Kitty Riley’s flat, and this put John on guard.

            “Dr. Watson?” asked Richard tentatively.

            “John, please.” He stood and shook Richard’s hand.

            “Thanks for agreeing to meet me.  I understand how hard this is.”

            He sat and watched as Richard added sugar and milk to his coffee.




            “My therapist tells me I should lay off the caffeine,” said Richard casually as he took a sip.  “I’ve got insomnia real bad, but I have a feeling I always have, regardless of caffeine.”

            “Shrinks are full of shit, anyway,” replied John, and Richard chuckled.

            “Mine doesn’t do me much use when I’m not even sure what my problem is.”

            “What is your problem?”

            “My identity.”

            John eyed Richard thoughtfully.  Everything about this man seemed genuine, but he couldn’t trust him.  (Why do I want to?)  All of the memories he had of this man seeped into him, and he could only see Sherlock, standing above him as John knelt, with red lasers pointed at them.  A simple nod of his head, Sherlock’s look of understanding, and Moriarty’s wicked smile.

            “I’ve been told I did terrible things.”

            Richard stared down at his cup, looking like a puppy that had the shit beaten out of it after being set on fire.  John couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man.  He looked like the most pathetic human being on the planet.  If clubbed baby seals had a human form, they would manifest themselves in that exact image John had before him. (Do I look like this to others?)

            “I heard that my name was Jim Moriarty, so I googled him.  According to all the reports, he was really me…or, I was pretending to be him?”  He sighed and buried his face in his hands.  “Some say Moriarty was real, but the news said he wasn’t.  But if those reports are true, and if Richard Brook was made up, then I…” He took a shuddering breath.  “I can’t imagine doing those things.”

            As much as he had hated neurology, John had found psychiatry fascinating.  While psychopathy is a difficult to disorder to deal with, he had figured Moriarty fit the bill quite nicely.  He lacked empathy, completely disregarded all of society’s rules, and not for specific material gain, but simply because he felt like it.  Low conscientiousness, high antagonism, very few emotions, and that lack of fear.  It was different from what John had seen in Sherlock.  When they exchanged that glance, they both tried to be brave.  They thought if they had to go, at least they could bring Moriarty down with them.  Both of them had been terrified, but Moriarty seemed to enjoy the show.  Because he was bored.  He didn’t care, and he did everything with the most exaggerated sense of entitlement because he thought—no, he _knew_ that he was smarter than everyone else.  John wondered if he was describing Moriarty or Sherlock.  (Do I know how strongly that detective’s heart beat?)

           “I read your blog, and I don’t understand.  I tried to blow you up?”

           He stared at John with such sad, pleading eyes.  John could see that this man was trying to hard to understand, but at the same time, he didn’t want to.  That would mean he would have to come face-to-face with a terrible past.  The nature versus nurture had come up many times in medical school.  Were some people just hard-wired to be insane?  And if so, how could it be changed?  Perhaps a speeding bullet, if you were lucky, could cure your psychopathy.

           “And this man told me that I…I ruined you.”

           Richard buried his face in his hands.  His shoulders shook, and his knuckles turned white from where he was gripping his hair.  Part of John wanted to reach out and touch him, to comfort him.  (Why do I care so much?)  However, the louder part of his brain kept screaming, reminding him of the bomb, of the laser sights, of that fall.

           “That’s a little bit dramatic,” said John, after a prolonged, tense silence.

           Richard dropped his hands and said, “It’s true, isn’t it?  When I walked in, my first thought was that you look like complete shit, to be honest.”

           “To be honest, I’ve been thinking that you look like complete shit this entire time.”

           Richard barked out a laugh, and John couldn’t help but chuckle.  The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and it wasn’t the laughter he used to share with his detective.  But it was something.

           “I thought you looked like a puppy someone had tried to ignite or something.”

           Richard laughed, a real, genuine laugh, and John couldn’t help but smile.

           “Shit, that bad?”

           “Not much better than me, to be honest.” John sipped his coffee. “Listen, I’ll tell you everything I know about Moriarty, everything I believe is the truth.” He paused. “The papers all say he wasn’t real, but I want to tell you that everything I say will be completely honest.  Can you trust me on that?”

           “What other choice do I have?” Richard smiled weakly.  “Honestly, John, I’ve got no one.  I can’t find any family, any friends.  I’ve got a job that barely pays the bills, and no new friends to speak of.  My therapist can’t help because I don’t even know what’s wrong with me.”

           “Richard, your past is—“ He paused. “—unpleasant.  Extremely unpleasant.  I’m going to warn you now that it is definitely going to freak you out.  But…” (Why try so hard to help this man?) “…if I tell you everything, maybe you can move on from it.  Are you sure you want to remember?  Because the man you used to be wouldn’t care how anyone feels, and he would never say sorry.”

           Richard sighed and stared into his mug.  A long silence passed before he returned his gaze to John.

           “I want to remember,” he said, a note of finality in his voice. (Why am I doing this?)  (Why do I want to do this?)

 

-o-

 

            John met Richard in public again, but this time, they were in a park.  He didn’t want to tell him any details in a restaurant where they’d surely be overheard.  Given how Richard may react, which could encompass any variation of very dramatic emotions, he didn’t want to cause a scene.  However, he didn’t want to meet Richard anywhere privately either.  So he settled on the park where they could have a conversation without being too enclosed.

            “Hello, John.”

            He smiled as Richard approached, bearing two cups of coffee in hand.  Richard looked a bit better than he had last weekend.  He still seemed exhausted and perpetually disheveled.  (How did Sherlock and Moriarty always look so put together in their damned suits?)  However, there was a bit of hope behind his eyes.  John suddenly felt like a terrible person for telling Richard the truth.

            “Thought you could use this.  Not like either of us sleeps, anyway.”

            John accepted the coffee and said, “Thanks.  I appreciate it.”

            “Least I could do.  You got the tab last time.”

            They drink in silence for a moment, relishing in the slight breeze, sunny skies, for once.

            “I love this time of year,” said Richard.  “Autumn is my favorite season.”

            “Mine too.” John smiled weakly.

            “Well, we best get started.” Richard looks anxious but curious. “What can you tell me about…me?”

            “We only met twice,” said John, “but I learned quite a bit about you in that time.  If it’s all right, I’m going to refer to the you that I know as Moriarty, like he’s someone else.”  John paused. “He is someone else, really.  You’ve got a whole new personality, thank god.”

            “What was wrong with me?”

            “You were a psychopath,” said John bluntly, and he immediately regretted saying it.

            “Psychopaths,” said Richard slowly, “they don’t have emotions, right?  No emotions, or morals, they even enjoy doing fucked up things?”

            He looked to John for understanding, not just because he knew his past, but because he was a doctor and would understand the psychology behind it.  John was a little shaky on some of the details, but he felt that his understanding would be enough to help Richard.

            “They get bored, and the general trend is that fucked up things tend to amuse them.  The more fucked up something is, then the more likely it is to be interesting.  That’s just how life works.”  (Why is it that Sherlock decided to solve the crimes instead of commit them?)

            Richard nodded and looked away again.  John could tell that this man was brimming with sadness, and he can’t help but want to put him back together. (Because your detective is gone?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and all the hits! I'm amazed it got more than five hits. Please leave kudos and comments if you want more! Happy author means more frequent updates! :) The lack of grammatical problems (hopefully) is credited to my dear beta Emily. Chapter title is the song "Only Happy When It Rains" by the band Garbage.


	3. 21 Guns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides to meet Richard in public. He should be safe there.

            A variety of different emotions accompanied John as he made his way to the park.  He chose to meet Richard in the same place.  John wasn’t sure if he would ever reach a level of trust to meet him in private.  At the moment, his intentions were to relay what information he knew to Richard, and then move on from this incident.  To be fair, he didn’t think he had much information to tell.  Besides the incident at the pool, John had only seen Moriarty at the trial.  Yes, he would relay how he brought Sherlock down, but beyond that, John knew very little of Moriarty’s criminal empire.  They had only encountered it briefly with Irene. (Had there been other times that they didn’t recognize?)

            Richard sat on the same bench again, holding two cups again.  He still looked tired and sad, but something was different.  As John approached, his face lit up.  He was hopeful, and it made John’s heart sink.  Everything he was going to tell this man was going to break his heart.  During their last meeting, John had gone into some of the details of Moriarty’s personality.  The way he used his voice, so taunting and strange, and how he was textbook psychopath.  He had waited a week to meet up with Richard to prevent overwhelming him.  Learning that you used to be a psychopath, and knowing that was just the tip of the iceberg…

            “Here.” Richard held out the cup. “Hot chocolate, today.”

            “You really shouldn’t,” said John as he sat.

            “Don’t worry, I made it myself.  Try it.”

            John took a sip, surprised at the bite the cocoa had.

“Damn, that’s good.”

            Richard broke out into a smile like he had been praised and given a gold star.

            “I don’t remember learning the recipe, but I did some snooping.  It’s Mexican hot chocolate.  You add a bit of chili powder into the cocoa.  But it’s a homemade recipe I have in my head.”  He pauses.  “It’s just sort of there in my head.  I can’t really explain it; but I was craving cocoa, and I just started throwing things together.  I knew just the right amount of milk, sugar, cocoa, and chili to put in…it just…it made sense, you know?  God, you must think I’m crazy…” (Why do I feel a kinship toward this man?)

            “No,” said John, “you’re not crazy.  You’re confused.  And maybe you picked up that recipe traveling.  Some things you’ve retained, like how to use utensils, are embedded deep within your brain.  Maybe that recipe is like second nature to you, so that’s why you remember.”

            Richard nodded.

            “That makes sense.”

            “The brain is very strange.  We really don’t know that much about it.  Your case is odd, but then I’ve seen stranger things in my time practicing medicine.”

            “I read your blog, and that post ‘The Great Game,’ you called it, could you tell me about that?”

            John took a long sip of the cocoa, wondering how exactly to respond.

            “It’s all online.  Not much to tell.”

            “Yes, but I’d like to hear it from you now.  All the details and more information on what I was like.  How I acted.  You said what happened, but nothing else really about me.”

            “Him,” John corrected.

            “What?”

            “Him.  Moriarty.  You’re Richard now.”

            Richard smiled weakly and asked, “So what was I like?”

            John stared down at the cup.  Such a kind man had given him this cocoa. (Is he really not Moriarty anymore?) Such a kind pair of eyes were looking up at him with desperate, naïve hope.  But what was the point of telling him?  Even if John wasn’t being fooled, then all he was going to do was tell Richard the truth about his past.  If he really had become a normal person, if his personality was irreparably altered, then he would be devastated, at best.  It was clear he had chronic depression, was prone to emotional instability, possibly even had suicidal thoughts, and to throw this shocking information at him could be his undoing. (Am I being cruel?)

            “You—err—he was like a reptile,” he said quietly.  “In the few moments I saw him, a variety of expressions crossed his face, and as each one passed, I grew more and more terrified.  When he finally revealed what he really was, why he decided to play this game with him, I couldn’t see his face.  My back was to him.  I only heard his voice.  It gave me nightmares that were even more terrifying than the ones I had of fighting in Afghanistan.  I knew the war could never get me again.  Those were flashbacks.  But the flashbacks I had to the night were different; I knew he was still out there, just biding his time.  His voice slithered into my dreams and stayed there for a long time.  On the worst nights, it’s still there, in the back of my head, like some kind of serpent laying in wait.  Except, I assumed I’d never hear him again.”

            John stopped himself suddenly.  His words had gotten away from him, and now he was staring at Richard, whose face contained a mixture of horror, fear, sorrow, and confusion, all rolled into one.  He looked off into the distance, eyes unmoving, but John could almost see the gears moving behind his dark eyes.

            “And when I saw his eyes, it chilled me deep to the bone,” he continued, “Because I knew that it didn’t matter what happened to me.  And it wasn’t for some grand purpose or cause.  It was because he felt like it.  Some killers, however devious, still have some sense of morality, no matter how twisted it ay be.  But he had none.  Nothing to hold him back, which made his ruthlessness that much more cruel.”

            Richard buried his face in his hands, taking several deep breaths in and out as if to steady himself, to keep from screaming out loud. (Why do I understand his man so well?) His hands gripped his hair tightly, and as he lowered them, John thought he saw a flash of anger that looked startlingly familiar.  A blink, and it was gone.  (Did I imagine it?)  He shook his head to shake himself off the queasy feeling welling up inside his chest.  Of course angry Richard is going to look like Moriarty had when he shouted.  John could hear “THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE DO” echoing in his head as if it were happening right in front of him.  He shut his eyes to get the awful thoughts to go away, when Richard’s phone went off, playing “Staing Alive” as his ringtone.

            “Sorry,” he said quickly.

            John felt bile rise in his throat. (Why is that his ringer?)  He reacted without thinking and jumped off the bench, nearly running a few feet away.  The cocoa fell to the ground and spilled all over the pavement.  His sudden movement startled Richard, who apologized over and over again as he hit the ignore button on his phone.  John’s heart was beating as if he’d just run a marathon, and his mind didn’t see the park in front of him.  All he saw was a laser sight pointed at Sherlock’s chest, the gun in his hands pointed at the pile of explosives on the ground, and Moriarty’s gaze, reveling in the moment, challenging Sherlock.

            “John…”

            Richard’s voice was far and distant at the corners of his conscience.  John had experienced flashbacks before.  A car backfiring set him off for weeks after he came back from Afghanistan.  Even the smell of chlorine still bothered him.  But _that_ song coming from _that_ phone of _that_ man, even if it was in a park, and they were safe, was just too much. (Will Sherlock fire the gun?)  He can smell the chlorine, even taste it on his tongue.  His breath is shallow and ragged, but he is trying to steady himself.  Sherlock looks to John for confirmation, and he nods, knowing that they may as well take the criminal down with them if they had to.  The look of calm on Sherlock’s face eases John’s insides.  They both know what is going to happen, but it’s okay.  It’s okay.  It’s okay.  It’s fine.  It’s all fine. (How will we survive this?)

            “John…”

            A voice at the edge of his mind, but he didn’t hear Richard.  He heard Sherlock.  His mind faded away from reality to an old memory.

            “John, are you all right?”

            “Fine,” says John, shutting his eyes.

            “We should get out of here in case those snipers come back again.”

            John hums in response, but he has no desire to move.  He can hear Sherlock’s voice in the background, speaking with someone rapidly on the phone.  It is only as Sherlock wraps up the call that John understands what he is doing.

            “Mycroft?” he asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.

            “I imagine many governments are keeping tabs on Moriarty,” says Sherlock.

            The gun is still in his hands.  His eyes are roving all over the arena, looking for any kind of hint or clue.  But he had been fooled.  Moriarty really is the only person who can match him.

            “I assumed it would be best to inform Mycroft of this interaction.”

            “You’re helping your brother.”

            Sherlock makes eye contact with John, but doesn’t say anything.  His chest is heaving slightly, and he can’t seem to catch his breath.

            “We need to get out of here.”

            Sherlock bends down and helps John stand, one arm around his shoulders.

            “Lean on me on your bad side.”

            John puts very little weight on his bad leg as Sherlock helps him limp out of the arena.  They move through halls and end up in the lobby, but they keep going.  Sherlock doesn’t stop until they’ve reached the front doors, and he is helping John to rest on the steps outside.  John takes several shuddering breaths, trying to get as much of the cool night air into his lungs as he can.  Several black, unmarked cars, and even a few intimidating vans pull up.  Sherlock quickly slips the gun into the band of his pants at his back.

            “Best your brother doesn’t know I have an illegal firearm,” murmurs John.

            “He knows, and I daresay he approves,” says Sherlock, a slight smirk on his face.

            “You do get yourself into some shit.”

            Sherlock looks at John and opens his mouth to speak, but he is cut off.

            “We’re sweeping the place right now,” says Mycroft.

            People in plain uniforms move past them into the building, some carrying fancy forensics equipment.  John marvels at how many people Mycroft was able to bring to investigate on such short notice, but then he thinks that someone with a _minor_ government position must be able to amass an army at a moment’s notice.  Or _the_ army.

            “But given Moriarty’s previous tendencies, I doubt we’ll find anything.”

            “He was able to get away with murder as a child,” says Sherlock, “so I imagine as an adult with incredible financial means, you won’t find much.”

            “Did he leave anything behind?”

“Just the vest, but I doubt it’ll hold anything useful.  I’m afraid if you ever do catch this man, it’ll be because he wants you to.  I can only imagine why he would want that.”

            “We have come quite a bit closer to him in the past few weeks.  Do you know what his intentions are, in regards to yourself and Dr. Watson?”

            Sherlock shrugs and stares off into the distance.

            “Not going to tell me?  Really, you did call.”  Mycroft stares at Sherlock with a scolding look that John is sure Sherlock grew up seeing.

            Sherlock sighs and says, “He claims that his intentions are to ‘burn the heart out of me.’”

Sherlock looks away almost innocently.

“Whatever that means…”

            Mycroft purses his lips and doesn’t say anything.  He moves his attention to John, who has finally managed to steady his breathing and return some sense of homeostasis.

            “Do you need medical attention, Dr. Watson?”

            “No, no, I’m fine.”  John takes another deep breath.  “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

            “No matter how much you see in war, it’s always unsettling to experience it in the civilian world.”

            “I’m fine. Really.”

            “I believe it best that we go home now, Mycroft,” says Sherlock suddenly, staring at his brother intently.

            “I need the details of everything that happened while they’re fresh,” counters Mycroft.

            “I assure you that the memories of what transpired will remain vividly enshrined in our minds for some time, possibly our entire lives.”

            “Unfortunately,” adds John darkly under his breath.

            Sherlock and Mycroft stare at each other fixedly for several moments.  No matter how much of a genius Sherlock is, John is quite certain that Mycroft is one of the few people also on his level, or as close to it as someone can get.  A silent conversation transpires between the two, before Mycroft suddenly rolls his eyes, waving his umbrella at a car and saying, “I’ll be by tomorrow morning.”

            “John needs to rest, and I don’t want you interrupting.”           




            “You’re not my bloody mother, Sherlock,” says John as he stands.  “We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

            “Afternoon.”

            “Sherlock,” says John quietly, his voice warning him.

            “I’d be happy to stop by for afternoon tea,” says Mycroft, a small smile gracing his face.

            John thought Mycroft was trying to be friendly, but the smile is more unsettling to him than anything else.

            “Yes, yes, stop by, interrogate, blah, blah, blah.  Goodbye.”

            Sherlock sets off toward the car.  He opens the door and then stares at John, looking at him attentively as he ambles over, as if he were observing.  His leg bites a bit with pain, but not like it had been a few moments ago.  For the life of him, he can’t fathom why Sherlock is holding the door open like some sort of valet.  However, John doesn’t question Sherlock’s sudden improvement in common courtesy and slides into the backseat of the car.  As soon as the door shuts, the car begins to drive smoothly away, and John stares out the window, disinterested in the passing scenery.

            “Are you okay?” asks Sherlock quietly.

            “I’m fine,” says John, a note of finality in his voice.

            He understands why Sherlock keeps asking, but it’s starting to irritate him.  He’s a soldier.  He’ll get by.

            “Are _you_ okay?”

            “Yes, of course.”

            John turns to Sherlock, who has turned his gaze to the window.

            “Why wouldn’t I be?” says Sherlock quietly.

            “The same reason I’m not.”

            Sherlock looks sharply to John.  He lays his hand on John’s without saying a word, and then resumes staring at the window.  John stares at their hands, feeling his pulse begin to race again.  The adrenaline is still pumping through his system.  In times like these, in Afghanistan, when the action had faded and all that was left was himself and the others who had survived, they needed to do something to remind themselves they were alive.

            John had several fantasies about what would happen next.  At the time, Sherlock’s small gesture had been so startling, and he had been so tired, that he just sat and came down from the adrenaline rush.  In his mind, his fantasies manifested weeks after Sherlock left him.  Those fantasies were all he had to fill the gaping hole in his heart.  In reality, they remain silent in the car until it returns home.  John makes tea for them both, and they sit, relishing in the silence of the flat, of the calm of ordinary life.

            John scoots over to Sherlock.  He raises one hand to slowly turn Sherlock’s face toward his.  Sherlock says nothing, his brow slightly furrowed, trying to deduce John’s actions.  It doesn’t take long for him to figure it out, since John closes the distance between them.  The kiss is tender, chaste, simply lips pressing against lips.  Sherlock gasps in surprise, but doesn’t pull back.  One of his hands comes to rest on John’s thigh, the other at his waist.  John wraps one arm around Sherlock’s neck while the other rests on his shoulder.  After a moment, he pulls away, staring at Sherlock’s face.  Confusion has transformed into understanding.

           Their eyes lock briefly, and then John kisses him again, but more fiercely.  Sherlock reciprocates, his tongue flicking against John’s lower lip, almost shyly, as if he is unsure if this is what John wants.  But John wants all of him to keep as a little reminder.  So he slips his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth as if to consume all of him and nestle himself in Sherlock’s chest, so that when Moriarty burns Sherlock, he has to burn John too.

           John never took that fantasy much further than desperate snogging.  It seems innocent and tender, because it’s just the beginning.

           “John…”

           His eyes snapped open.  John’s hands gripped a railing, and he stood before a pond.  A breeze blew suddenly, catching leaves and swirling the top of the water.  He took several deep breaths and turned around.  Richard stood just a few feet behind him, looking concerned and scared.

           “How long was I like that?”

           “Maybe a minute or so,” replied Richard.

           “Sorry, I—that was—when his phone went off at the pool…”

           “That was his ringtone?”

           John nods.

           “I’m sorry.”

           “It’s not your fault.”

           “Explains why I love that song so much,” he murmured ruefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos again to Emily for finding all my stupid typos and telling me what sucks and what doesn’t. The title of this chapter is by Green Day. Thank you for kudos and comments! The more the merrier! :)


	4. Dark Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can only roll his eyes as the black car rolls up next to him. He couldn't imagine a scenario where he would enjoy Mycroft's company.

            The air had a nip to it as John left his flat one afternoon.  The cool, autumn temperatures and brisk wind prompted him to turn up the collar of his coat without really thinking about it.  He contemplated spending the day in a bookshop with a cup of coffee when a black car rolled up next to him on the pavement.  He rolled his eyes as Anthea stepped from the back seat.  She didn’t look up from her mobile, but nodded her head toward the car.  John glanced up and down the street, hoping that the car would have disappeared by the time he looked back again. (Why do I always get in the car??)

            “It’s been a while,” he said.

            “Hmm?”

            Anthea stared at him with an empty gaze, her eyes tearing from the mobile for a brief second.

            “Nothing.  Just…nothing.”

            John couldn’t help but notice that in this position, Mycroft reminded him of Sherlock.




            “Good afternoon, John.”

            Mycroft smiled in a way that slightly unnerved John.  He was never sure if Mycroft was actually capable of real feelings, or if there was some other kind of motive lying underneath.  Mycroft motioned to the chair before him as he stood.

            “Please have a seat.”

            “Thanks.”

            John sat as Mycroft walked to a cupboard, pulling from it two glasses and a bottle of scotch.

            “Little early for that, isn’t it?”

            “One of those days, I’m afraid,” he said as he poured.

            “Geopolitics not doing what you tell it to?”

            “I’m not as powerful as Sherlock would like to have thought.” He handed John a glass.

            “I’d beg to differ after the business with Irene Adler.”

            Mycroft only hummed in response as he resumed his seat.

            “So why am I here?” asked John as he took a sip of scotch.

            “I think you know,” replied Mycroft mildly.

            “Why the sudden desire to share your good scotch?” asked John, slightly amused.

            He could tell Mycroft was resisting the urge to roll his eyes.  For some reason, Mycroft had always brought out the petulant side in John, much in the same way he did in Sherlock.  He couldn’t quite explain why.  Even though Mycroft had no idea what Moriarty intended to do with the information he divulged, and even though he knew that Mycroft loved his brother dearly, John wasn’t sure he would ever be able to fully forgive him.  (Can I move on?)  (Why can’t I move on?)

            “Nothing wrong with two friends sharing a drink when they need to take the edge off,” he said, taking a drink.

            “We’re friends now?” John laughed. “Yes, very good friends,” he added sarcastically.

            “I don’t know what it is about my presence that brings out your particularly vitriolic side,” said Mycroft, “but I should let you know that I harbor no ill feelings toward you.”

            “An absence of bad feelings doesn’t mean that good feelings are filling that void.”

            “Call it sentiment, John, but you’re the only person who ever made my brother seem human.”

            “Seem?” countered John.

            “To outsiders.”

            “They don’t know him like I do,” said John quietly. “I knew the real him.”

            “Better than any of us.” Mycroft paused to take a drink. “What was so surprising was that he let you.”

            “Did he?”

            “Your faith is shaken, after all this time?”

            “He’s not a god.”

            John downed his scotch in one large gulp.

           “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” said John, as he stood and moved to the table where the scotch was sitting, refilling his glass. “He fancied himself one.  He had the god complex of a surgeon.  I should know, seeing as I how I’ve operated on people.” He slumped in the seat again. “No, he puts even god himself to shame.”

           “Why is it that you change between past and present tense while speaking about Sherlock?”

           John had been about to bring the glass to his lips again, but faltered.  He stared at Mycroft, unsure of what to say. (Why do I think of him that way?)  He felt as if he’d been caught doing something embarrassing and was suddenly exposed with Mycroft staring straight into the soul.  That stare, that seemed as if it could see into the depths of your soul, must have been a family trait.

           “And why won’t you say his name?”

            John set the glass down on the table next to him.

           “Why am I here?” he asked politely, folding his hands.

           “It’s come to my attention that Jim Moriarty his risen from his coma claiming to be a man named Richard Brook,” said Mycroft quietly. “I must admit that I was surprised at how quickly you warmed up to him.”

           “I haven’t warmed up to him,” John countered defensively. (Why so guilty?)

           “Call it what you will.”

           Mycroft picked a file off of the table beside him and handed it to John.  Inside were photographs of John and Richard from when they first met.  They appeared to have been taken from outside.  Then there were photos from their meeting in the park.  The last one made John’s stomach twist with guilt.  Richard was handing John the cocoa, and both of them were smiling.

           “Ironic, that you finally start to feel normal again when speaking with the man who took Sherlock from us.”

           “I’m not starting to feel normal,” said John angrily, and then immediately shut his eyes.  He took several deep breaths in, trying to calm his voice, before opening them. “I’m just helping him.”

           “Helping him with what?  Letting him know about his past as a crazed, psychopathic, criminal mastermind?  According to his therapist’s notes in front of you—“ He motioned toward the file, and John began to read them. “—the man is severely unstable.  Prone to severe mood swings, mild psychotic episodes, constant thoughts of suicide and hopelessness.”

           “He’s clearly a manic depressive.”

           “I’m sure you know that just from talking to him.”

           “I _am_ a doctor.”

           “Keen enough to tell the difference between fiction and reality.”

           “It’s amazing that he’s even alive,” said John, suppressing the rage boiling up inside of him.  (Why am I defending Richard?)  “How can you possibly think his personality or memories would be intact?”

           “The bullet didn’t pass through any areas of the brain associated with personality.  He should be dead.”

           “The brain is a complex organ,” replied John.

           “You honestly think it’s possible he’s been given a clean slate?”

           “When you eliminate the impossible, what’s left, however improbable, must be the truth.”

           Mycroft pursed his lips and took another drink of scotch.  His eyes focused on the fire in the grate.

           “I’m assuming you’re keeping tabs on him,” said John as he set the file down on the table

           “Yes.”

           “Monitoring all of his communications.”

           “We bugged his phone and read all his emails.”

           “Of course.”

           “We track him on CCTV as much as possible.”

           “Not surprising.”

           “From what we can tell,” said Mycroft mildly, “he’s a very depressed man recently woken from a coma with no recollection of his past life and with severe personality changes.  All of his mail is read before it enters his home, and he is under constant surveillance.  Every single entrance to his building has eyes and ears on it.  Even the hallway into his flat is monitored.”

          “I’m amazed there aren’t eyes in his flat.”

          “We hear everything inside.”

          John scoffed. “Is there no such thing as privacy?”

          “He’ll get it if he’s proven innocent,” said Mycroft darkly, turning his gaze toward John.  Something about his eyes was very dangerous, and John knew that Sherlock never exaggerated Mycroft’s position in the government.

          “Anything to protect the people, eh?”

          Mycroft didn’t respond.  John stood, flexing his left hand.

          “I’m going to keep talking to him.  I’ll let you know if anything odd catches my attention.”

          “How do you define ‘anything odd’?” asked Mycroft coolly.

          “If anything he says is to Moriarty-ish?”

          Mycroft chuckled. “So it’ll have to be more than a Bee Gees ringtone, then?”

          John stared at Mycroft, unsure if he should be shocked or angry.  He settled on a furious mixture of both.

         “Bit more than that, yeah.”

 

-o-

 

Any news on Moriarty? SH

 

He’s assumed the identity of Richard Brook. That’s what the paper work said, so the doctors have given him this identity.

            -Mycroft Holmes

 

Do they know it’s false? SH

 

No, and neither does Moriarty.  I have reliable evidence suggesting that he may have awoken with amnesia.

            -Mycroft Holmes

 

It’s a trap. SH

 

A bullet went through his brain.  The damage is clear.

            -Mycroft Holmes

 

And he conveniently awakes with no memories and with a reset personality? SH

 

Or he conveniently awakes unharmed after a bullet passes through his head?

            -Mycroft Holmes

 

It’s happened. SH

 

So has this.

            -Mycroft Holmes

 

Keep him away from John. SH

 

John is the person who has confirmed his amnesia.

            -Mycroft Holmes

 

I’m returning to London. SH

 

It’s too early for that.  The whole operation could founder if you misstep now.

            -Mycroft Holmes

 

Sherlock, you’re so close.

            -Mycroft Holmes

 

We can take care of John.

            -Mycroft Holmes

 

Sherlock, answer me.

            -Mycroft Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bit shorter, so I posted it right away. I'm going to be gone for a few days, like last week, so another chapter probably won't be posted for a week. This chapter felt like a necessary segue to get some interesting events rolling. Thanks again to the wonderful Emily for finding my typos and pointing out things that don't make sense. She is a god send. The chapter title is a song by No Doubt. Thank you for kudos and comments!


	5. The Ghost of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is apprehensive about seeing Richard again and wonders if he has made the right decision.

            Moriarty’s Richard Brook had a nearly indelible background.  John spent hours on the internet trying to find any kind of hole in his story.  The only error he saw was in an interview, presumably fabricated, where Richard mentioned an old childhood friend that, as far as John could tell, did not exist.  He wondered why he mentioned a name in a fake interview, when that person wasn’t real. (What does it mean?)  (Am I reading too far into things?)

            John sighed, shut his laptop, and ran his hands through his hair.  He ignored the vibration of his phone and tried to focus on the details of Richard’s past.  Besides that one tiny detail, it was perfect.  However, that name could be explained away.  Something nagged at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. (Why would someone named Sebastian matter?)  As his phone buzzed again, John muttered irritably, glancing at his phone.

 

I’m really sorry, John.

 

It’s not your fault, Richard.

 

Let me make it up to you.

 

You’ve done nothing wrong.

 

Then why are you avoiding me?

 

            John knew exactly why he had avoided all contact with Richard for the past fortnight.  When he had come back from Afghanistan, John felt that his post-traumatic stress disorder was mild in comparison to some of his comrades.  Many of them experienced flashbacks regularly or were crippled by substance abuse and depression.  Yes, he had been severely depressed, and a psychosomatic limp plagued him for weeks, but he had never had a flashback.  (Why do I assume flashbacks are the clincher for severe PTSD?)  While the smell of chlorine always irritated him, nothing relating to Moriarty had ever been so intense a trigger.  Even seeing Moriarty again, while bringing up bad memories, had never elicited such an intense response from him.

 

I’m sorry.  What are you doing tonight?

 

            John stared at the phone for several minutes.  He could think of no way to respond to Richard.  That was a lie.  He could think of no way to tell a convincing lie to Richard.  Even if he said he was busy, Richard would know better.  They were far too similar for John to be comfortable.  They both went to work, had few friends, and spent their time listless, unable to find joy in the world around them.

 

I’m making dinner.  Would you like to come over?

 

            He sucked in a sharp breath.  He had specifically avoided meeting Richard in private, but here was a blatant invitation to go to his home.  Part of him wondered if it was a trap, but then John thought, he didn’t really care. (What are you so afraid of?)  If it was, maybe he would be put out of his misery.

 

-o-

 

            “I’m so glad you could make it.”

            John felt guilty when Richard opened the door.  The man was clearly relieved to see him.  A huge smile broke out on his face.  John’s insides twisted uncomfortably with trepidation.

            “I thought we could use something to take the edge off.”

            John held up a six-pack as he entered and glanced around Richard’s flat.  It was small with beige carpet and white walls.  A plain couch faced the wall where there was a television and a small bookshelf, sparsely filled with a few novels and magazines.  The kitchen was so small John could touch each wall with his fingers.  A small table with two chairs sat in the corner, and a doorway immediately to his right led into the bedroom.  John couldn’t help but notice that it was similar to his.

            “Fantastic.”

            Richard followed John’s gaze and took the beer from him, walking into the kitchen.

            “It’s not much, but it’s a place to sleep,” he said, “and watch crap telly.  I don’t know why I have a fondness for those stylist, makeover shows.”

            “Everyone has their weaknesses, although Moriarty was a snappy dresser, I must say.”

            “Really?” Richard glanced down at his worn t-shirt and cardigan, which was missing a button and fraying at the seams.  “That part of my mind didn’t stay intact, then.”

            “It’s probably best you started fresh.”

            “Well, I do know one thing,” said Richard, as he moved to the stove.  “I am a fine cook.  Do you know where I picked up that skill?”

            “Never got a taste of Moriarty’s tikka masala.”

            A few hours later, John was sitting on Richard’s couch, legs spread out in front of him, while Richard sat on the floor facing him, downing the rest of his beer.  They had managed to finish the six-pack without any trouble and then cracked open a bottle of whiskey.  (Should I be concerned?)  John was oddly at ease, which seemed unnerving to him, to be comfortable with this man in private.  It was probably the beer’s doing.  He could feel the buzz in his brain, making everything slightly fuzzy, making the world spin just a tad bit when he moved his head too quickly.  It felt like someone had wrapped a piece of plastic wrap around his vision, making everything a bit numb.

            “It’s been a long time since I’ve had too much fun drinking,” said Richard, his voice slightly slurred. “I can’t really hold my liquor well…very…well…” He broke out into a fit of giggles.

            “It’s a learned trait,” said John.  “Practice makes perfect.”

            “I haven’t…practiced…much…oh, wow, words are difficult.”

            “S’ perfectly normal…”

            “I don’t…don’t go out much.”  Richard yawned and stretched.  “I don’t have any friends.”

            “Shenani…shen…wait…” John giggled. “I can say it.”

            “Shenaytwagh…no, I can’t handle talking.”

            “Shenanigans,” said John slowly, drawing out each syllable as he spoke. “Should’ve just said bullshit.”

            “But really, I don’t.” Richard sighed.  He had that look about him, that sad, lost look that twisted John’s heart.  “No one from work really talks to me.  I just go to work, and then that’s it.  Nothing happens to me.”

            As Richard spoke, John felt apprehension twist in his stomach.  Something about the way he moved unsettled him.  His pauses and breaths were punctuated by subtle stretches and flexing of his neck.  To anyone else, it appeared as though a tired man stretched his neck.  To John, it was reptilian and disturbingly familiar.  He didn’t see Richard.  He saw Moriarty rolling his neck and eyeing a discarded jacket filled with explosives.  He saw Sherlock’s unreadable expression, and a gun held so elegantly in his hands.

            “I’ll get you a blanket.”

            Richard had patted John on the shoulder and walked past him.  He blinked rapidly and tried to catch his breath, slow his racing heart.  Richard had been too drunk to notice that John had faded out for a moment.  (Should I be back in therapy?)

            “Here.”

            Richard stood before him and held out a blanket.

            “What?”

            “Drunker than I thought.”  He chuckled.  “It’s late, and this neighborhood is a bit dodgy.  You’re in no state to go home.”

            John smiled weakly and took the blanket, saying, “I was a solider, you know.”

            “Soldiers get hurt too, right?”

            Richard was smiling.  In his drunken stupor, he thought it was a joke, but John’s brief flashback had sobered him up.  He opened his mouth to speak again, but stopped at Richard’s face.  It was a combination of concern and earnest desire to keep him safe, to keep a friend.

            “Right.”

 

-o-

 

            Self-loathing crept up on John.  Some days, if the telly was interesting enough, or if the surgery was busy enough, he could forget about it.  But most days, he would look in the mirror and notice it, as if it had been sitting there, waiting for him to notice.  It fell on his shoulders like a heavy weight, forcing his shoulders to sag, casting his eyes down.  Thoughts of “I hate myself” and “You’re so pathetic” filtered through his mind, moving in and out as easily as water down a stream.  Some days, it ebbed, like a dull ache in the back of his mind.  Others, it crashed into him, and he was damned to push the boulder of self-loathing back up an insurmountable hill over, and over, and over. (Until when?)

            Some incidents made the feeling more pronounced than usual.

The morning he woke on Richard’s couch after a night of drinking was one of those defining moments.  It was hard not to vomit from that realization alone.  He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around how nice Richard was.  He made John _breakfast_ the morning after they got drunk together.  The man was cooking omelets and offering John juice for his hangover the way any friend would.

            John had gone home and promptly thrown up the eggs and whatever bits of shame and decency he may have been holding onto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Emily for finding all my stupid mistakes. I have the tendency to spontaneously switch tenses in the middle of sentences, and she gets rid of all the stupid for you guys. The chapter title is a song by My Chemical Romance.


	6. Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard lashes out when he starts to feel the weight of the information John gives him.

            Harry’s birthday was always a hassle.  John never knew what to get her, and the dinner was a long tribulation of awkward small talk of whatever woman she was seeing that week.

He wandered around shops one afternoon, but nothing seemed to suit her, as far as he could tell.  Perfume?  He had no idea what she liked.  Jewelry?  He couldn’t afford anything decent.  Part of him wanted to throw a bottle of booze at her and tell her to have at it.  (Will she ever sober up?)

            At random, he had walked into a secondhand bookshop.  He raked his mind for memories of Harry’s favorite childhood books.  His sentimental side wondered if he could find one of her old favorites and give her a vintage edition.  She might appreciate that.  She might think it stupid.  He could never be sure.  It was a sentimental gift because they had been very close as children; nothing had been quite the same since school.

            “John!”

            The voice was familiar, but carried surprise with it.

            “Richard?”

            John turned to see Richard holding a few books in his arms, a lanyard around his neck.  He cleaned up more for work than when John normally saw him.  He had shaved, and his cardigan didn’t look quite as mussed up as it normally did.

            “Hey, how are you?”

            “All right.”  He smiled weakly.

            “So you work here?  I didn’t even know.”

            Richard shrugged.  “Just a job.  I put a smile on for the customers and try to be normal.  You know how it is.”

            “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

            “So what’re you looking for?”

            “Oh, my sister is having a birthday, so…” He shrugged.  “Anything, I guess.”

            “Well, what sort of books does she like?”

            “The kind made of gin and whiskey,” said John shortly.  At Richard’s taken aback look, he quickly said, “Sorry, sorry, it’s—erm—a problem in our family.”  (Why can’t we get along?)

            “No, don’t mention it,” said Richard kindly.  “I understand how it is—family stuff.”

            John smiled weakly because he knew that Richard didn’t understand anything about having a family.  Richard Brook wasn’t real, so no family had come forward to find him.  Something about his face must have given it away, because then Richard said, “I just—drama, you know, I understand how that goes.”

            “Right—I didn’t mean to—“

            “Did I do something?” asked Richard suddenly.  His face seemed normal, but his voice quivered slightly, betraying his mediocre attempt to mask his hurt feelings.  “Because you’ve been acting odd since last weekend, and I—“

            “Richard, listen,” said John quietly, “you have to understand how complex everything was.  All the things that happened, they—“

            “Yeah, you haven’t told me much the last few days,” said Richard, casting his eyes downward.

            “It’s difficult, Richard, for _me_ to talk about all these things.”

            “And you think it’s easy for me to hear it?” cried Richard.  “How would you feel if you found out you used to life as a psychopath who _killed_ people?”

            John bit back his next reply.  Richard looked like he was about to burst into tears, and John didn’t know what to say to him.  For while he felt as though he was pushing a boulder up a hill endlessly, Richard felt that he was too.

            “How many people did I kill?” asked Richard quietly.

            “This isn’t the time or the place for—“

            “Richard!” A woman appeared at the end of the aisle, looking stern, but with a fake smile plastered on her face.  “Is everything okay here, sir?”

            “Yes, sorry, Richard was being very helpful, actually,” said John quickly.  “Just helping me find an old book, but you don’t have it in.  Thanks,” he added, giving Richard a quick smile before making a swift exit.

            Once he was successfully on the street, John swore loudly and kicked a trashcan, which severely alarmed an old woman walking past him.  He shot her a quick apology.  In response, he received a disapproving glare.

            In the last two months, John had met Richard a number of times.  He had gone into massive detail about Moriarty’s personality, the pool incident, the Tower of London break-in, and the subsequent trial.  However, John had yet to explain why he knew Richard loved Bach, how he took his tea, and why his mention of an IOU for last week’s coffee sent him reeling.  (Is this becoming ridiculous?)  John had no more to contemplate this because a sleek, black car had rolled up to the edge of the curb.  As the door opened, John said, “Fuck _no_ , Mycroft.”

            He took off down the street, flexing his left hand irritably and ignoring the slight tinge in his right leg.  He also ignored the car as it moved slowly alongside him.  His phone went off.  In response, he flipped off the car.  A second later, his phone went off again.  He continued walking, even as it began to drizzle.  When they came to the intersection, the car stopped, and the door opened.

            “Fuck off,” he said harshly, staring at the intersection and waiting for the light to change.  After a moment, it occurred him that the light was not going to change any time soon.  Cars would keep going past all day long, if they had to.

            John slipped into the car, and the light instantly changed.  He did his best to glare at Mycroft across the seat, who looked none too pleased himself.  His umbrella was in his lap, and his fingers moved across the handle as if they were mapping the grain of the wood.

            “I have some concerns, John,” said Mycroft quietly.

            “I have no fucks to give about your concern,” replied John scathingly.

            “And I’m going to disregard your apathy,” countered Mycroft, “and point out that you’re spending an exceeding amount of time with what was once the world’s most dangerous man.”

            “If he woke up from that coma with his memories and personalities intact,” hissed John, “then he’s a _damned_ good actor.”

            “You’re sure of this?”

            “Yes.”

            Mycroft sighed and set his umbrella aside.  John felt his heart rate begin to slow, but his rage didn’t subside. He didn’t know if it was the situation or the man, but either way, he wanted to get the hell out of this car.  (How does he sleep at night?)  (Or does he?)

            “Where are we going?” asked John suddenly.

            “The situation has changed, John,” said Mycroft quietly, looking rather morose as he stared out the window.

            “What situation?”

            “You were in danger the day Sherlock died, and you still are.”

            John was taken aback.  He knew the situation had been precarious three years ago, but still?  The assassins had moved in for Sherlock, not him.  He had been certain of it.  John had just been along for the ride.  (How come I couldn’t protect him?)

            “What the hell are you talking about?”

            Mycroft stared at John intensely, his eyes betraying no emotions, but indicating to John how serious the situation was.

            “You have no idea.”

            “Will I?”

            “You’re about to.”

            The car had been stopped, and John noticed just then.  He looked out the window and saw that they were at 221b.  He closed his eyes and turned away, unable to stop the sudden pounding in his chest.  The pain in his leg increased, and John thought he might experience a real panic attack at this point.  (Can I do this?)

            “I haven’t—“

            “Go inside.”

            “Why?”

            John stared at Mycroft, who offered an unblinking stare in return.  He swallowed heavily and stared at the door of Baker St.  It looked just as it had before, same dark wood, same golden lettering.

            “Richard Brook came to you because someone sent him in your direction.  Haven’t you been wondering who that someone is?”

            John returned his gaze to Mycroft.  The thought had crossed his mind plenty of times, but he waited for Richard to bring it up.  Their relationship had been a steady climb, slowly built up from the cracked foundation of John’s heart and the trust trapped in Moriarty’s sinewy web.

            “Is he waiting inside Baker St?” asked John evenly.

            “No, but someone who needs to find him is.”

            “There’s only one person who’d want to meet me here,” said John quietly.

            “Go inside, John.”

            (Why am I doing this?)

            It was probably the longest walk of John’s life.  He exited the car, but didn’t remember hearing the door shut, or watching it drive away.  His footsteps were not his own.  It was if he were no longer in control of his body.  If he had been, he would have run screaming as fast as he could in the other direction.  No, he couldn’t go into this place.  But there he was, opening the door into Baker St.  He took the same steps up to the flat, those steps he had tread over thousands of time.  The creak in the floorboards was familiar and almost comforting.  It would have been, if it hadn’t been for the pounding in his chest, the sweat beginning to form in his palms.  He took a steady breath and entered the old flat.

            In some ways, it had changed very little.  There were still bullet holes in the wall, and the yellow smiley face remained.  The chairs and furniture sat as they had, but the flat had lost its character.  The table was neat and free of clutter.  No newspapers strayed in any corners.  The books sat neatly on their shelves, unread, but recently dusted.  The kitchen looked as if no one had eaten there in months, and it was strange to see it without any chemistry equipment.

            It was what 221b would have looked like if Sherlock Holmes had not lived there.  There was no skull on the mantelpiece, and the Cluedo board had been removed from its savage, knife-bound spot on the wall.  It could have passed for a normal person’s flat, if you ignored the need for new wallpaper.  The one striking difference to John, since he had last left, was in the room’s one inhabitant.  Sitting in his armchair, plucking absently at the strings of his violin as he always had, was Sherlock Holmes.

            “John.”

            His heart stopped.  The voice, which he never thought he would hear again, fell upon his ears.  The face, which he never thought he would see again, held a pair of eyes that stared at him.  Those eyes held many emotions, but the ones at the forefront were trepidation and concern.

            John opened his mouth to speak, to attempt to process what was in front of him, but before he could say or do anything, he promptly fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger, but I promise John’s reaction will be interesting next chapter! Thanks to Emily again for editing! Thanks to all of you who have review and added to alert, even though the percentage of people who have alerts that review is in the single digits. I know who you are! ;) Chapter title is the Radiohead song “Creep.”


	7. Smooth Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John finally awakes, he isn't too pleased to see Sherlock.

           When John came to, his actions were simply a gut reaction to the situation he encountered.  It was the kind of reaction one might expect from a soldier or someone who had spent some time living a somewhat dangerous lifestyle.  When he opened his eyes, a curly-haired consulting detective was quite close to him, much closer than John was comfortable having him at that time.  There was about an inch’s worth of space between them.  John would have been startled having any face that close to him, but that particular face set off a different reaction.  It was less of a reaction and more of a reflex.  The supposedly dead Sherlock Holmes was an inch above him, staring into his eyes, therefore John punched him in the face.  (How long will it take me to strangle him?)

            Sherlock cried out and fell backward onto the floor after John’s fist collided with his cheekbone.  John sat up quickly, his heart racing and blood boiling with a mixture of rage and confusion.  He watched as Sherlock slowly stood and backed a few steps away.

            “Yeah, you better run,” said John harshly as he stood, his fists clenched.

            “John, calm down.” Sherlock held his hands out in front of him.  “Just breathe.”

              “Breathe?” he cried incredulously.  “You want me to _breathe_?”

            “Well, it is necessary for life.”

            John lunged at Sherlock who jumped over the coffee table and put the sitting room table between the two of them.  Sherlock had a mixture of confusion, fear, and amusement on his face.  (Is this funny to him?)

            “Just calm down.”

            “Don’t you tell me to calm down,” said John quietly, his voice low and dangerous.  “I’ll bloody well calm down when I feel like it.”

            “I’ll explain everything to you.”

            “Yes, you will, and then do you know what’s going to happen?”

            “We’ll have a cup of tea,” offered Sherlock hopefully.

            “Yes, I’ll sit down and have a nice cuppa after I _beat the shit out of you_.”

            John moved around the table, but Sherlock jumped back so that his armchair was between them.  John walked around it in a slow circle, stalking Sherlock, opening and closing his fists in what he hoped was a very threatening gesture.  Sherlock threw his hands up again.  (Does he think a chair can stop me?)

            “John, just listen.”

            “Oh, I’m listening, Sherlock.  Tell me all about the grand adventures you had while I was back here _hating_ myself every fucking day.”

            Another wave of anger over took John, and he charged at Sherlock again.  Sherlock bolted into the kitchen and leapt onto the kitchen table.  (Should I break the table or lunge at him?)

            “You think I won’t come up there?”

            “I actually don’t know why I jumped up here,” said Sherlock, glancing down at the table slightly confused.

            “Sherlock, get off the table.”

            “No.”

            “Get off.”

            “No.”

            “Just come down.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I’d rather kill you on the floor.  It’ll be easier for me.”

            “I think I’ll stay up here.”

            “I’ll kill you up there if I have to.”

            “No, I’m quite—“

            “ _Boys_!”  Mrs. Hudson entered the room, looking cross.  “No murdering each other, and, Sherlock _please_ get off the kitchen table.”

            “I will as soon as John promises not to kill me,” he said, glancing from John to Mrs. Hudson.

            “I promise not to kill you, Sherlock,” said John evenly.

            “You’re just saying that so I’ll come down, and then you’ll punch me again.”           




            “Yes, I will, but just because I punch you doesn’t mean I’ll kill—wait a second!” he cried suddenly.  “You talked to Mrs. Hudson _before me_?”

            “I had to,” said Sherlock.  “It _is_ her property.  It would be rude if I didn’t.”

            “Oh, so you got manners while you were bandying about?”

            “John, he only came to me first,” said Mrs. Hudson, coming around the table to put an arm around him, “because he wanted to get settled back in and make sure everything was suitable for you to come back home.”

            John’s eyes swiveled to Mrs. Hudson when she said the word “home.”  He felt his insides soften, and the rage flew out of his body.  His shoulders sagged slightly, and she patted him gently on the arm.  (Will I ever be able to come home?)

            “Now how’s about some tea?”  Mrs. Hudson began to bustle about the kitchen.  “Just this one time, mind you, only because you both have a lot to talk about.  Oh, I just _love_ reunions.  I do hope you two kiss and make-up soon.  It’s such a shame to see young people let silly things get in the way…”

            John had tuned Mrs. Hudson out.  He was staring up at Sherlock, whose expression held a kind of trepidation John had never seen in him before.  He held out his hand to Sherlock, who eyed it warily.  (Will I want him to let go?  Really?)

            “I’m just helping you off the table, Sherlock.  I’m not going to kill you.”

            Sherlock moved forward slowly and took John’s hand, landing on the floor with more grace than John could ever hope to have.  John dropped his hand immediately, flexing his own as he walked back into the sitting room and collapsed in his old armchair.

            “John…”

            John shushed him and held up a hand.  He shut his eyes, trying to shut out the world and process what had just occurred.  The thought “Sherlock is alive” stamped itself into his mind, and he had to focus on taking deep breaths in and out.  It was several minutes before he opened his eyes again to find Sherlock sitting across from him, fingers in a steeple under his chin as they always had been.  (How is it that he’s so calm?)

            John took his moment to really _look_ at Sherlock.  His hair was longer, but still curly and just a tad bit unkempt, although that was probably from being punched into the ground.  He wore a dress shirt and trousers, as always, although the shirt wasn’t as tight as it usually was, and nearly bordered on baggy.  His eyes were the same color and pierced John with an intense gaze, as they always had.  The cheekbones looked a bit more pronounced, and it made John’s heart ache to know his friend had eaten even less than he normally did.  The desire to scoop him up in his arms and tell him they would be fine was almost overwhelming at that moment.  John’s eyes fell to the small cut on Sherlock’s cheek.  (Why did I hurt him?)  (Why did he have to hurt me?)

            “Sorry about that,” said John quietly, motioning to the cut.

            Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly.

            “No, you’re not.”

            “True.”

            John noticed his tea sat on the table next to him, a bit of steam coming off the top.

            “Mrs. Hudson left just a moment ago after she insisted on looking at this,” said Sherlock, pointing to the cut before picking up his own tea to take a sip.

            “That’s nice of her.”

            “I came back around two in the morning,” said Sherlock, “and Mycroft insisted on confirming the flat was _safe_.”  He spat out the last word as if he had a mouthful of black coffee, which John knew he sorely detested.

            “How terrible of him,” muttered John sarcastically, although he was still unhappy with Mycroft at that point.  “How long has he known?”

            “Well, a few weeks after my death, some of Moriarty’s associates suddenly began to appear dead, so it didn’t take him long.”

            “You killed them?”

            Sherlock stared at John, letting his hands rest on the chair’s arms.  His eyes betrayed nothing, but John had a feeling Sherlock had a lot to say on the matter.  (Does he know I can see his heart bleed?)

            “Does it matter?” asked Sherlock simply.

            “It matters to you.”

            “I’ll be able to sleep at night,” said Sherlock quietly, “if you’re concerned about the kind of people they were.  I know how you have this tendency to care.”

            “Given that they worked for Moriarty, I think I have an idea.”

            “Then you’ll understand why it took me so long.”

            “For the work to get done, yes.  For you to tell me about it?”  John stared hard at Sherlock.  “Not so much.”

            “Moriarty said if his men didn’t see me jump, the sniper focused on you would fire,” said Sherlock, “and I had to make sure those men would never see me alive.  At least, not until the end of their lives.”

            John turned his head and stared at the wall. He had known _something_ was terribly wrong when Sherlock called him. Not just because he seemed so emotional, but there were so many things Sherlock wasn’t saying, hidden between his words. Sherlock _knew_ John never thought him a fraud, except for one panicked moment in their flat.  Something had always been wrong with that moment.  It had never felt to John like Sherlock was actually committing suicide.

            “So now all his people are dead?” he asked quietly.

            “Except for a few.”

            “Why back so soon?”

            “His last and most important associate wants to get to him and that requires my presence in London.”

            “You’re going to use Richard to find this last man and then kill him?”

            “Both of them.”

            “Richard isn’t Moriarty anymore,” said John angrily.

            While he had never been happy with the situation, John sure as hell didn’t want Sherlock killing Richard.  Whatever he had done in his past, that person no longer existed, and he didn’t want Richard to be punished for Moriarty’s sins.

            “Forgive me if I’m not so convinced,” said Sherlock, irritated.  He stood and went to the window, looking down onto the street.

            “I’m convinced.”

            “You were convinced I was dead.”

            “Only Sherlock Holmes could fool me.”

            “Or a man just as clever as him.”

            Sherlock turned his gaze to John, clearly starting to get angry.

            “You really trust him?”

            “I have no reason not to.”

            “You have a thousand reasons not to!” shouted Sherlock.

            “Do I?” yelled John, getting to his feet.  He felt the rage churning in his blood again.  “Because last I checked _I_ was the one talking to him.  Not you!”

            “I’m sorry if I have difficulty believing it after everything that’s happened.”

            “Well given that you’re alive maybe you should start believing in miracles.”

            “Don’t you get it, John?  I did all of this for you!”

            Sherlock’s words flew into John like a ton of bricks. John had assumed that Sherlock simply wanted to finish the game Moriarty had started.  It had never occurred to him that he was critical in the equation, an important part of the end game. (Does he feel the same way?)

            “What are you talking about?” asked John quietly.

            “I assumed that I was on something of a suicide mission,” replied Sherlock, his voice calmer.  “Not just to jump for you, but everything that would come after.”

            “Why come back now?”

            “As long as I’m in London, I know that I can’t stay away from you,” said Sherlock quietly, returning his gaze to the window.

 

-o-

 

            In his mind, John refused to come back to 221b.  It would be too much too soon, but there he was, putting away his clothes in the wardrobe, wondering why the hell he was doing this.  (Don’t you know?)  John swore vehemently as he slammed the doors shut.  (Why was it so easy for him to convince me to come back here?)

            It hadn’t taken long to empty his old flat.  He packed what few clothes and other select belongings he had.  It wasn’t much.  He didn’t even own the furniture in the place.  Nothing about it would be missed.

            “What the fuck is this?”

            Sherlock looked up, startled.  He glanced at the kitchen table and then back to John.  His hand was in a bag of takeaway, and two trays sat on the table.

            “Dinner,” said Sherlock, slightly confused.

            “You got food,” said John, dumbfounded.  “For us.  To eat.”

            “Yes, well, it’s past dinner time.”  Sherlock continued unpacking the food.  “I thought you would be hungry.”

            “Of course I’m hungry, but that’s not the point.”

            “What is the point?”

            “This—“ He motioned to the table before him. “—is something a normal person does.  I recall spending a lot of time forcing you to eat.”

            “To be fair, Mrs. Hudson ordered it for us,” said Sherlock.  “And got out the trays.  And told me to unpack it just now.”

            John couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of Mrs. Hudson forcing Sherlock to do something so blatantly domestic.  He watched as Sherlock continued unpacking the food, marveling at watching Sherlock do something so normal.  It was only when Sherlock finished and announced that dinner was ready that John noticed how quickly his heart was beating.

            “This is strange,” said John as he sat.

            “I’m sure you’ll get used to the idea that I’m alive,” said Sherlock simply.

            “No, I mean us eating here at the kitchen table instead of the sitting room.”

            “That can always be remedied.”

            “It’s nice and normal.”

            “You want to be normal?”

            “God no.”

            An hour later, they had finished eating and sat on the sofa.  John was looking through files Sherlock had on the last of Moriarty’s men.  He also had Richard’s medical files, which received the most of John’s attention.  Sherlock had gone into massive detail on Moriarty’s criminal enterprises.  He hoped to bring John up to speed, who would in turn relay the details to Richard.

            “Damn has he got a lot of issues,” murmured John as he read the pages.

            “You’re just getting that from the file?” asked Sherlock, quirking an eyebrow skeptically.

            John sighed and tossed the file on the coffee table as he said, “No, I’d gathered that much already.  But I don’t understand why this Moran character would send Richard in my direction after three years.”

            “He’s cornered,” said Sherlock quietly, “and desperate.  There’s a theory that amnesiacs can remember their past selves if prompted, perhaps a story or something familiar can jog their memory, as it were.  He’s hoping that you talking to him it will trigger something in Moriarty.”

            “That’s assuming his old memories are still there.”

            “They may be.”  Sherlock stood and stared out the window.  “For all we know, they’re buried deep down, waiting for the right word or phrase that will bring everything back.”

            “That’s a pretty wild theory, and he has nothing to substantiate it.”

            “It’s all he’s got left.  I’ve made sure all his other options are gone.  I didn’t expect him to come back here, though.  Nevertheless, Moran will try to contact Moriarty again—“

            “Richard,” said John quickly.  “His name is Richard.”

            Sherlock turned to John, a deep frown on his face.  That face made John feel nothing but guilt.  He knew he shouldn’t feel that way.  Sherlock hadn’t just left; he had been dead and buried, nothing but a memory for John.  Yet every time he spoke to Richard, John couldn’t help but think that he was committing some kind of cardinal sin, betraying every part of Sherlock.

            “Don’t look at me like that,” said John quietly, his temper beginning to rise.

            “Like what?”

            “Like I’ve betrayed you.”

            Sherlock laughed and said, “Please, John, why would I feel betrayed?”

            “You tell me.  It’s written all over your face.”

            Sherlock swallowed heavily and looked away, his eyes distant and glazed over.  John stared at him for a moment before saying, “You have no right to be mad at me for this.”

            Sherlock’s attention swiveled back to John.

            “Don’t I?” he said softly, an angry edge to his voice.

            “No, you don’t,” said John as he stood, feeling his rage come bubbling to the surface again. “You were dead, so you really don’t get to be angry about how I tried to move on.”

            “Except you didn’t move on, did you?  You’re the same man you were when I met you.  ‘Nothing happens to me.’  You let nothing happen to you until the most dangerous man you ever knew was thrown back into your life.”

            When Sherlock said “most dangerous man,” John wondered if he was referring to himself or Richard.

            “What do you mean I let nothing happen?”

            “You resigned to yourself to a quiet life of going to work and doing nothing but wallowing in your misery.”

            “Resigned myself,” said John incredulously. “You think I wanted that life?”

            “Then why didn’t you do something about it?”

            “I didn’t know how to live without you!”

            John regretted the words as soon as they fell from his mouth.  He didn’t regret feeling them, but he hadn’t meant for Sherlock to hear them.  Sherlock looked taken aback.  He stared at John, his face full of concern.

            “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

            John felt his heart thud so rapidly against his chest, he thought it might burst out.  His left hand flexed open and shut unconsciously.  His mind scrambled to think of a reply.

            “John…” Sherlock slowly walked toward him with a look on his face John hadn’t seen grace his features before.  He was clearly intrigued but also concerned.  (Does he want this too?)

            “No, Sherlock.”  John held up a hand.  “This conversation is over.  It’s been a long day.  I can’t even be sure this isn’t a dream.”

            “I can assure you this is real.”

            Sherlock stood right in front of John and raised a hand, but John backed away, hands held up in front of him.

            “This is happening too quickly, Sherlock. I can barely process this.”

            “John—“

            “No, Sherlock, don’t.” John backed up until he was standing against the wall. “Please.”

            “I’ve rushed you.”

            “Clearly.”

            “Do you regret coming back here so soon?”

            “I should,” said John quietly. “but I don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta Emily for finding all my stupid mistakes! The plot definitely thickened this chapter, so I hope it’s kept people’s attention. Thank you for all the alerts, and I hope for reviews! The chapter title is “Smooth Criminal” by Michael Jackson.


	8. As Long As You're Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension rises in 221B when John continues speaking with Richard.

            When John came downstairs for breakfast, he wasn’t surprised that Sherlock was nowhere to be found.  He set about making toast and coffee, rubbing at his bleary eyes.  He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.  Most of the night had been spent marveling that he was sleeping in that flat again.  When violin music drifted to his ears around three am, it wasn’t irritating like it used to be.  It was the most comforting, soothing noise he’d ever heard.  (How could I not miss it?)

            He had settled at the sitting room table with coffee and toast when Sherlock arose.  Neither of them said anything as Sherlock sat at the table with a mug of coffee.  He wore the same blue dressing gown over his pajamas, and John’s heart swelled at the sight of it.  Combined with his slightly mussed up bed head and somewhat sleepy eyes, Sherlock looked as close to adorable as he could ever come.  They sat in comfortable silence until John finished with the first section of the paper.  He handed it to Sherlock, who took it wordlessly, as John read the sports.  The strange contentment wouldn’t last long, since a knock on the door came a few minutes later.

            “Wonder who that could be,” said John as he rose to answer the door.

            “Morning, John.”

            Mycroft smiled at the doorway, but John could tell that it was only out of politeness, not any pleasure derived from seeing John.  He wondered if Mycroft actually derived pleasure from anything besides baked goods.

            “Good morning, Mycroft, what brings you here?”

            “Just wanted to make sure you were settled in all right,” he said casually, twirling his umbrella in his fingers.

            “Yeah, of course.  Tea?  Coffee?”

            “No, I only have a few moments, but I do need to speak with Sherlock.”

            John allowed Mycroft to enter and resumed his seat while Mycroft stood at the mantel, observing Sherlock as he read the newspaper.

            “Sherlock,” he said quietly.

            “What, dear brother, could you possibly want?” he said, not moving the newspaper from its position in front of his face in the classic Sherlock Holmes avoidance technique.  John munched on his toast as if nothing odd were occurring.

            “I’m putting this flat under twenty-four hour surveillance, and, John, you’re under surveillance as well.”

            “You mean I’m not already?”

            Mycroft pursed his lips and said, “You appear on surveillance only with Richard Brook.”

            “Moriarty,” corrected Sherlock from behind the newspaper.

            “I understand, Mycroft, as long as there are no cameras _inside_ the flat,” said John, raising an eyebrow.

            “None in the flat.”

            “And no bugs, either.”

            Mycroft sighed and said, “The British government is only aware of what happens as soon as the door _opens_ , John.  Although it’s curious that you would be so intent on hiding what’s going on in here.”

            “It’s called privacy, Mycroft.  The government should learn how to respect it.”

            Sherlock snorted behind his newspaper, but hastily covered it up with a cough.

            “Good to see things appear to be back to normal in Baker St.”

            “They appear that way, yes.”

            “Well, I’m sure you’ll work out whatever problems Sherlock’s return may bring,” said Mycroft briskly.  “I must be off.  Business to attend to, as you know, but there is one last thing.  Under absolutely _no_ circumstances is Sherlock to leave the flat, at least not until we’ve located the whereabouts of Sebastian Moran.  Is that clear, Sherlock?”

            The newspaper didn’t move.

            “There is a camera in the hallway, Sherlock.  I’ll know the instant you leave.”

            The newspaper remained in its place.

            Mycroft sighed and said nothing until he reached the doorway, and said over his shoulder, “Try not to kill him, John.  We did just get him back after all.”

            As soon as the door shut, Sherlock threw down the newspaper and crossed his arms in a huff.  John rolled his eyes and took a bite of toast.  He had always hoped to avoid getting in the middle of the Holmes Brothers’ feuds, but it seemed unavoidable at this point.

            “So you’re going to be dead to the world for a little while longer, eh?” asked John.

            “Unfortunately so,” said Sherlock crossly.  “So if Moriarty is going to crack, hopefully it’ll be soon.”

            “Sherlock, I think we need to act as if all of Richard’s memories of life as Moriarty are gone,” said John quietly.

            “When you eliminate the impossible—“

            “Leave your philosophical musings to someone else,” said John harshly.  “We need to act realistically.  And realistically speaking, we have a man with amnesia _definitely_ being watched by a dangerous sniper.”

            “Moran isn’t going to make a move for some time,” replied Sherlock.

            “What’s he waiting for?”

            “Any sign that Moriarty is recovering his memories.”

            “Even if it _could_ happen, it could take years.”

            “Then we make him think he’s recovering to draw Moran out of hiding.”

            “You can’t use Richard like that.”  John crossed his arms in what he hoped appeared to be a defiant gesture, mirroring Sherlock’s own position.  “I won’t let you.”

            “You’re not going to _let_ me?” said Sherlock, his voice laced with skepticism and growing anger.

            “That’s what I said.”

            “And how do you propose doing that?”

            John stood suddenly and placed his arms on either side of Sherlock’s chair, bringing his face very close to the detective’s.  Sherlock’s arms fell to his sides, and he looked completely shocked at John’s sudden movement.  They maintained eye contact for several seconds, although it felt like an eternity to John.  Their breath was hot and heavy between them.  John’s heart began to race, but he focused on breathing evenly and staring hard at Sherlock.

            “Do you remember what you said that convinced me to come back?” asked John quietly, his voice angry but even-tempered.

            “Yes,” replied Sherlock softly, barely above a whisper.

            “Then you let me keep talking to Richard, and I’ll let you know if anything changes.  Understand?”

            “Of course.”

            “Good.”

            John dragged himself away from Sherlock and stomped upstairs, slamming his bedroom door shut to add emphasis to his point.  He listened to Sherlock’s own bedroom door slam and then sighed heavily, throwing himself onto his sheets. (When will this misery go away?)

            John had hoped returning to Baker St. would somehow make things easier.  So far, he and Sherlock had done nothing but fight.  Granted, it had only been a day, but he had longed for something different.  (Did you really think it was going to play out like your favorite fantasies?)  What he longed for sat at the forefront of his mind and began to strain at his pants, and it pissed John off.  He didn’t like that being so close to Sherlock did this to him, and he _definitely_ didn’t like how little control he had over it.  (What do those lips feel like?)  No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts wouldn’t focus.  (What do they taste like?)  He tried to think about how angry he was.  (Why does he make my heart ache?)  That didn’t help.  (How can I make it stop?)  If anything, that only increased the tension.  (Why do I want it so bad?)  Then he thought of what had made him angry, but that thought wouldn’t stay.  (How does he do this to me?)  His mind drifted back to proximity and closeness and how desperately he wanted to ensure that there was no space between the two of them.  (How perfect would it be?)  When he shut his eyes, John thought, maybe he had seen Sherlock want it too.  (Does he?)

 

-o-

 

            John still had the key to his old flat for another two weeks, so he invited Richard over.  Sherlock insisted that they go somewhere private so that John could relay the whole story of his fall in detail without being overheard.  He was certain that Moran had followed the two of them to their public excursions.  John had watched Sherlock absent-mindedly while he paced back and forth, not really listening to his words, just staring at him as he walked, gesturing wildly as he spoke.  (I wonder if some things about Sherlock will ever change?)

            The main challenge to having Richard at his old flat was pretending he still lived there.  He made sure to shut the bedroom and bathroom doors, while Sherlock forced him to throw a spare toothbrush in the bathroom for good measure.  He had stocked just a few things in the fridge to make it look somewhat lived in.  Still, when Richard knocked on the door, his stomach twisted with nervousness.

            “Apology beer,” said Richard as the door opened, holding up a six-pack.

            “It’ll go well with the apology take-out on its way,” replied John, moving to let Richard in.

            “Listen, John, I’m really sorry for freaking out,” said Richard, setting down the beer on the kitchen table.  “It’s just…it’s a lot to swallow is all.”

            “No, it’s a lot to take,” said John as they sat at the kitchen table, “and I’ve learned a fair amount about Moriarty’s enterprise, but Richard…”

            Richard looked up at him, his face a mixture of confusion, concern, and fear.  John’s heart broke a tiny bit as he stared at him.  It was so strange to see this face and feel nothing but pity and sadness for him.

            “You’re not going to like it.”

 

-o-

 

           When John returned to Baker St, it was well past midnight.  He crept in slowly, out of habitual consideration more than anything else.  His mind focused on his conversation with Richard, and not on Sherlock.  He still felt shaken up, like he did after every meeting.  Sometimes, things went perfectly, like when they were eating and laughing, enjoying their time together.  However, the conversation always had to return to why they had even met in the first place.  Subtle things, such as the cracking of his neck or the change of his expression, triggered the worst in him.  It bothered him for many reasons; pride was the biggest.  Afterwards, he always wanted someone to take care of him, but his mind shouted at him for that.  He didn't want someone to have to take care of him because he was always the one who helped others, saved them from nasty wounds, flying bullets, themselves.

           Speaking of someone who could not take care of themselves, as soon as John had crossed the threshold, violin music fluttered to his ears. He entered the sitting room and stared at Sherlock, whose back was to him, playing as if he weren't there.  He stood at the window and had his music stand before him, a pencil and half-filled pages on it.  John waited until Sherlock stopped to write something, and without glancing up, Sherlock said, "You're later than I expected."

           "We caught up," said John, shrugging and plopping down into his armchair.

           "Talking?"

           "Clever deduction."

           Sherlock set down his violin and turned to John.

           "You were talking about more than just his criminal enterprise," said Sherlock simply.

           "Yes."

           "Why?"

           John rolled his eyes and said, "Whether or not you want to accept is Sherlock, he _is_ a person. A person with a job and things going on--you know, things that people talk about."

          "But why would you discuss those things with him?"

          John saw many different things pass through Sherlock's eyes.  Confusion, because he didn't understand such trivial matters as discussing someone's day.  Annoyance, because he wanted John to feed Richard as much information about his past as fast as he could.  Anger, because... John could only speculate on that.  Perhaps that he was talking to Moriarty's new self?  John understood; the man had ruined his life, both their lives.  But John couldn't focus on that.  The man who had endeavored to destroy Sherlock was gone.  John could see that, but Sherlock couldn't.  However, there was something else John saw.  Was it jealousy? Jealous that Richard took up John's time when Sherlock wanted him here?  John entertained several notions, but all of them seemed too far-fetched. (Does he want me as badly as I want him?)

          "That's what people _do,_ Sherlock," said John, irritated.

          As soon as the words fell from his mouth, John regretted them.  He was only frustrated with Sherlock's lack of understanding of societal niceties.  He hadn't meant to stir up old feelings, old memories that were already swimming at the back of his mind.  Before John could open his mouth to speak, Sherlock stormed off, his dressing gown swirling with all its usual, histrionic flair.  The door to his bedroom slammed, and John buried his face in his hands.  Self-loathing began to crawl its way onto his back again.

 

-o-

 

           John's insomnia had progressed to the point where he usually drifted off around two or three in the morning, and with enough coffee, he had the energy to fake a smile and pretend to be compassionate while treating his patients.  Sleep finally began to pull him down at three thirty, when he was abruptly pulled back into consciousness by the sound of a jarring violin.  He threw the covers off his bed and stomped down stairs, ready to give Sherlock an earful for playing so late.  (Nothing ever changes, does it?)  (Why does part of me enjoy it?)

           "Sherlock!" he cried harshly as he entered the sitting room.

           "Hmm?" Sherlock turned to John from the window, lowering the violin slightly, bow held loosely in his fingers.

           "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

           "Finishing my piece," he said plainly, motioning with the bow to the stand.  "Problem?"

           "Obviously I have a problem.  It's three thirty."

           "So?"

           "So, I have to get up for work in three and a half hours."

           "Well, perhaps if you hadn't been out so late with Moriarty, you would be asleep by now," said Sherlock lightly as he turned back to his music.

           "Don't make this about him."

           "What else would it be about?"

           "You think he's the reason why I can't sleep?" asked John incredulously. "I haven't got a good night's sleep in three years, Sherlock.  Whose fault do you think that is?"

           "I think it's his," snapped Sherlock, tossing down the bow and violin.

           This surprised John because Sherlock treated most of his few possessions with disdain anyway, but never his violin.  The violin was the one object that he treasured.  The objects fell unceremoniously to the floor as Sherlock glared at John, his face contorted in anger.

           "Don't you see what he's doing, John?" he hissed.  "Reeling you in, just like everyone else--"

           "A bullet went through his brain, Sherlock," shouted John.  "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

           "How can you possibly trust him more than you trust me?"

           "Who says I don't trust you?"

           "Then tell me you trust me," said Sherlock, his voice growing quiet, as he walked slowly across the room toward John.  "Tell me you still rely on me, believe in me like you did before."

           "You know I never thought you were a fraud," said John, attempting to keep his voice from rising again.

           Sherlock stood right in front of John, towering over him.  John pulled himself as far upright as he could, staring into Sherlock's face.  Whatever attempt Sherlock might make to intimidate him would not work.  For every word and gesture he had for him, John would counter him in return.

           "Then why don't you look at me the way you used to?" asked Sherlock, almost whispering.

           "Because you made me watch," said John harshly.

           He stared at Sherlock, waiting for his words to sink in.  Sherlock leaned back slightly.  Clearly, John's words had hit a nerve.  Sherlock frowned deeply, but John didn’t want to take it back.  He had told Sherlock the honest truth, and he wasn’t certain that he could ever forgive Sherlock for leaving, no matter how noble his reason.

           "I understand that you wanted to protect me, but I didn't have to see you fall to know you were dead."

           Sherlock slowly backed away from John, his eyes betraying nothing.  It was as if Sherlock could suddenly box up his emotions, but them in a place in his mind palace, away from the forefront of his mind, so that he didn’t have to really _feel_ anything.  Even though John knew that he did, Sherlock put it all away in a neat little box.

            “Perhaps this was a mistake,” he said, his voice clipped, emotionless.

            He walked to the window and peered through the curtains.  John walked slowly toward him, anger surging through his chest.  Sherlock had been very adamant about John returning to him at Baker Street, adamant that their place was here, together.

            “Perhaps _what_ was a mistake, Sherlock?” asked John quietly, his voice laced with anger.

            Sherlock turned to him and said, “Me coming back.”

            “You told me that you couldn’t stay away from me,” cried John.

            John stopped when he stood just a few inches from Sherlock, nearly pressed against him. (Why am I losing the ability to think?)

            “So tell me what’s changed.”

            “I deduce, John,” said Sherlock harshly, his voice rising in anger.  “Deduction is a fine science, and it allows me to work effectively.  As long as I have remained unattached, I have been able to function with near perfect precision.  However, I nearly ruined everything on the roof of Bart’s because _you_ were watching me.  I was overcome by sentiment and fear.  This should not happen.  I cannot _function_ with you watching me, so close to me.  All detachment flies out the window when you so much as look at me, when I so much as _think_ about you.  Now I see you walk out of this flat to go talk to _him_.”

            Sherlock spat out the last word as if it were venom.

            “I am overwhelmed by jealousy, by rage, every time you leave.  You came back home today with alcohol on your breath, and I could _smell_ him on you, John.  He gave you a hug, a gesture of friendship, yet all I can think about is how I want to rid you of his scent and replace it with my own.  Sentiment, John, is what has changed.  I can no longer control it, and it drives me mad.”

            Sherlock had just unloaded a massive amount of emotion onto John.  He felt as if he were suddenly suffocating, drowning in all of Sherlock’s fear.  This man of science, so focused, was swimming in emotion and fear, unbridled, out of control.  John reached a hand up and lightly stroked Sherlock’s cheek.  He was sure that Sherlock had never really allowed himself to feel before, but now, he could not prevent himself from feeling it.  The impulse was too strong, completely consuming. (Should I do this?) (Why shouldn’t I do this?)

            “John,” he whispered, his voice low, strangled with emotion.

            John put a finger to his lips, and his heart began to pound in his chest, as if it were trying to rip itself from his chest.  He was suddenly aware of their proximity, of the softness of Sherlock’s lips under his finger, of the calluses on John’s hands, of the light stubble on Sherlock’s chin, of the hitch in Sherlock’s breath.  He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and brought him down for a tender kiss.

            Several things happened in the moment.  Firstly, John’s brain nearly exploded in wonder.  How he had waited so long to do this, he didn’t know.  His whole body was bent toward Sherlock, like he was some kind of magnetic force, pulling John in to revolve around him.  Sherlock gasped in surprise and stiffened slightly, but he didn’t pull away.  One of his hands fell to John’s wrist, and the other gripped his hip, as if he were seeking purchase from John’s body.  John’s stomach immediately twisted, and his body grew warmer.

            John brought Sherlock’s lower lip into his mouth.  He had dreamed of these lips for so long that he wanted to explore each one, to find out exactly how it felt, to see how Sherlock would react.  He sucked on it and ran his tongue along the edge, savoring in the plumpness, the softness of it.  Sherlock’s hand tightened at his waist, and the other trailed down John’s arm, moving slowly down his arm and back to rest comfortably at the top of his pajama pants.  John pulled Sherlock’s upper lip into his mouth and traced the outline of his cupid’s bow. He had always noticed how defined it was, how the arch moved when he spoke, deduced at such a rapid pace.

            Sherlock’s tongue flicked against John’s lip almost tentatively, hesitant to taste him.  John tangled one of his hands in the curls at the nape of his neck and opened his mouth wider.  He pushed his tongue against Sherlock, who responded, pushing back against him.  His whole body moved against John’s, and they hit the desk.  John leaned against it, and Sherlock settled between his thighs, his hips pushing up into John’s.

            John moaned lightly and kissed down Sherlock’s jaw.  The stubble rubbed against his lips, and he moved down further, sucking at his neck.  He took the flesh into his mouth, wanting to darken it, leave marks all over Sherlock’s body.  Everyone would know John had been there, and that no one else had any place doing this.  Sherlock gasped beneath him and wrapped his arms tight around John.

            “John…”

            His voice was strangled, lower than usual, consumed by his lust.  John kissed further down and nipped at the hollow of his throat.  He ran his hands down Sherlock’s back to his buttocks, pulling his hips into him.  As he did so, John pushed his hips up, meeting against Sherlock’s.  His whole body was hot, and desire thrummed through him.  With each rapid beat of his heart, he felt his pants strain tighter.  With each thrust of Sherlock’s hips into his, the tension in John’s body grew.  He ached for Sherlock in every way possible.

            “John,” gasped Sherlock, his lips breathing heavily into his ear, “John, I’m…warm.”

            John smiled and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands.

            “Then I guess I’m doing something right,” he whispered.

            Sherlock connected their lips again, pushing himself with more force into John.  The desk rocked slightly, and a mug of tea fell over, spilling all over a notebook.  John ignored it in favor of wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock and moving him toward his bedroom.  Their hands roved all over each other, desperate to touch every inch of each other’s bodies.  John felt nothing but heat and desire, surging through him with each push of Sherlock’s tongue and every movement of his hands.

            When they entered the bedroom, Sherlock sat back onto the bed, looking up at John expectantly.  John slowly crawled forward because he was barely unable to comprehend that this was happening.  After imagining Sherlock’s mouth against his in the back of a car, and in plenty of other places in his fantasies, to finally have it happening was almost unbelievable.  Almost, because there were so many moments where he had been _so_ sure Sherlock wanted it too, but he had been careful.  Sherlock was often so hard to read, always pushing away his emotions.  Now not.  Now he laid himself before John, not just asking him for his body, but assuming that John would give it to him, since Sherlock had offered his up without question.

            John nestled between Sherlock’s thighs and ran his hands under the t-shirt.  His fingers found Sherlock’s nipples, and he teased them, running his thumbs in small circles over them. Sherlock moaned into their lips, one hand gripped tightly in John’s hair.  John reached to the bottom of his shirt and pulled it off over his head.  He knelt back and took is own shirt off as well, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor.  Sherlock reached out to John and pulled him back atop him.

            John’s hips rolled continuously into Sherlock’s, and Sherlock responded with just as much enthusiasm.  Their breath came in heated gasps, and John’s groin screamed at him for more friction, for more of Sherlock pressing against him.  John needed their clothes to be gone.  There was too much separating them.  This was not going to be a slow session of emotional love-making.  It was two people, who had craved one another for so long, coming together hot, fast, and desperate.  There was no time for thought or emotions.  The clothes had to come off, and they had to touch everything that was there.  John kissed Sherlock with frantic longing, with all the desire that had been kept inside of him for far too long, finally releasing itself in whirlwind of lust and passion.

            Sherlock’s hands fumbled at John’s pajamas, so John helped him push them off, until they were both naked, exposed.  It wasn’t like when John had been with women.  With his other lovers, he always had something to be self-conscious about.  He wondered whether they were enjoying it, if he was being too rough, or too gentle, or how disgusting did his scar looked to their eyes.  They always shushed him and kissed him, saying it was fine.

            But not Sherlock.  Sherlock grasped John by the shoulders and pushed him into the mattress.  He shoved John’s legs apart with his own hips and ground forcefully into him.  John moaned and wrapped his legs tightly around Sherlock’s.  He couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else.  Sherlock was kissing his neck, nipping at his skin, leaving love bites down his neck and clavicle.  John’s whole body was on fire, and each kiss from Sherlock, each movement of his hips forced pleasure through his veins in place of his blood.  Sherlock kissed his scar, rolling the gnarled flesh under his tongue.

            “Is this right?” murmured Sherlock into his skin.

            “Yes,” whispered John hoarsely.

            He grabbed Sherlock’s face in his hands and rolled his hips upward.  They moved against each other rhythmically, as if they were dancing to a tune that only their bodies knew, that no one else could match.  All of John’s muscles tensed, vibrating with pleasure.  He could see nothing, could feel nothing, except for Sherlock, kissing him, rubbing their erections together.  It was a symphony of their bodies moving in perfect time.  They moved desperately, fast, their lust pushing out all coherent thought.  All that mattered was that the two of them were there, together, moving.  They couldn’t stop.  If they did, John was certain that he would die, not when this felt so right, so perfect.

            “John…”

            Sherlock’s voice was strangled with pleasure, consumed by lust and passion.  His words reverberated through John, and he felt Sherlock spill out onto his chest, moaning his name into his skin.  John’s legs were wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s as his own orgasm engulfed him.  Each muscle in his body went taut and pulled apart.  Sherlock’s words and movements undid John from the inside out.  His back arched, and he moaned Sherlock’s name as he came.  His hands were tangled in Sherlock’s hair, and he saw nothing but stars behind his eyes. Every piece of him was laid out for Sherlock to inhale, to bury himself inside of.  John was no longer on the same planet, but in another place entirely, being torn apart from the inside out, each nerve ending in his body flayed out for Sherlock to consume.

           He collapsed against the mattress, his body useless.  Sherlock had pulled all his energy from him, and John’s body was limp, spent entirely.  He kept himself wrapped around him, panting heavily.  For several moments, they laid together, swept up in one another, mingling in the scent of sex and sweat.

           Sherlock eventually sat up on his elbows, looking down at John, his curls mussed, sticking to the sweat on his forehead.  John reached up and pushed his hair back from his face.  Sherlock looked glorious with his cheeks red, lips swollen, and love bites on his neck.  His muscles were shaking from holding himself up, so John laid him back onto the mattress and pulled the blankets up over him.

           “John,” whispered Sherlock, grasping at him.

           “Shh, shh, I’m here,” said John softly, “I’m here.  It’s all fine.”

           He leaned down and kissed Sherlock tenderly on the lips.  He remembered that Sherlock had once told him he had no time for romance, that it was a waste of effort for him.  Sentiment clouded his mind, and if his transport betrayed him, masturbation had been enough for him.  John realized that Sherlock had never given his body to anyone before, and it must have terrified him.  He kissed Sherlock with comfort, sucking each insecurity into his mouth and replacing it with his all-consuming love for him.  (How do I tell him I love him?)  (Does he feel it as intensely as I do?)

           John laid on his back, and Sherlock nuzzled into his chest, an arm slung over him.  He kept his arms wrapped tight around him.  Slowly, Sherlock’s breathing evened out, and when John was sure he had fallen asleep, he rose only to grab his mobile and text Sarah that he had suddenly fallen ill and needed someone to cover his shift.  She replied saying it must be serious if he was texting at that time, and not to worry about it.  John just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Sherlock, even for a few hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, cheers to Emily for finding all the crap that’s wrong with what I wrote. I hope you all enjoyed the sexy times. I had originally planned on them having sexual tension for several chapters, but you all can see how well that turned out. They really just can’t keep their hands off each other, I’ve changed the plot quite a bit from what I planned when I wrote the first chapter. This was probably the longest chapter yet, but I didn’t really want to divide it anywhere. Reviews make me happy! The chapter title is from the musical Wicked by Stephen Schwartz.


	9. You're All That I Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise guest arrives at 221b.

John awoke in the morning feeling content. His body seemed to be curled up into clouds or something equally soft. It took him a moment to realize that he was not in his bed. It didn't smell right. It smelled distinctly like Sherlock. John's eyes snapped open. The memories of the previous night (or early morning, really) came rushing back into him. He sat up abruptly and realized that Sherlock was kneeling at his feet with one of his legs in his hands, staring intently at the bottom of his foot as if it were the most fascinating evidence of a crime scene he had ever received. John knew that waking up in bed with Sherlock Holmes could never be normal, but he hadn't expected this sight before him. (Shouldn't this bother me more?)

"Sherlock," he said, his voice rough with sleep, "what are you doing?"

Sherlock shushed him and said, "Lay back. You're interrupting."

John rolled his eyes because he wasn't the least bit surprised that Sherlock had returned to his usual, domineering self the morning after sex. He laid back and eyed Sherlock as he set down his leg and picked up the other one. Sherlock grabbed his other leg and bent it as far back as John's flexibility would allow. He stared down at the bottom of his thigh and moved slowly up, eyeing every inch of John's skin. His hands moved up and down, running through the hair, his brow furrowed as if he were dealing with a particularly vexing puzzle.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Quiet, John."

"It's just a leg, Sherlock."

Sherlock shot John a scathing glare, so he mimed zipping his lips shut in response. Sherlock rolled his eyes in irritation and returned to John's leg, running one hand up his calf. John laid in the mattress, basking in the bit of sunlight that filtered through the slit in the curtains. He was just dozing off again when Sherlock suddenly turned him over and straddled his back.

"Jesus, what are you—"

"John," said Sherlock sternly, "you can have your way with me when I'm finished with this. For now, I need silence."

John huffed but said nothing. The though of having Sherlock wanton and writhing beneath him again was too tempting, so John laid still as Sherlock observed his body. He moved slowly, examining each inch of his back, running his hands over it, lightly running his tongue along an old scar from his youth, kissing a few scars on his arms he had received in Afghanistan. Sherlock scrutinized every inch of John's backside until he seemed to have pored over every inch of his body. John was content to lie in the bed with Sherlock's hand moving all over him, but suddenly Sherlock was rolling him onto his back again. John groaned as Sherlock straddled his hips and leaned down to kiss his lips.

"What was that about?" he asked against Sherlock's lips.

"I needed another mind palace," said Sherlock casually, as his lips moved down to kiss John's neck lightly.

"Another mind palace?"

Sherlock sighed in a way that meant his meaning _should_ have been obvious to John, and he couldn't understand why John was such an idiot. John sat up on his elbows to glare at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and said, "I needed another mind palace for you, obviously. There wasn't enough in my current one. I needed to devote many rooms to your skin, to the taste of you, feel of you. Your lips alone have several rooms. I need to be able to recall any part of you at a moment's notice."

John smiled. It was the most utterly romantic thing anyone had ever said to him, and Sherlock had been the one to say it. Sherlock didn't appear to understand the sentiment behind it, since he would probably go to his grave swearing such things were beneath him, but John came as close to swooning as he possibly could. His heart swelled, and he cupped Sherlock's face in his hands.

"You're amazing," he said quietly, "you know that?"

"John," said Sherlock, with an irritated sigh, "there is no place for sentiment—"

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and pushed him into the bed, laying atop him. Sherlock immediately craned his neck up to kiss John, who was certain that he would never tire of kissing Sherlock. (How could I?)

"I presume that last night gave you sexual satisfaction," said Sherlock into their lips.

John chuckled and murmured, "Yes, Sherlock. I assume you did, given that you were incapable of talking, except to say my name."

"I found the experience…"

John kissed along his jaw, lips brushing against the stubble. His lips trailed down to Sherlock's neck, where he took the flesh into his mouth, sucking at it. Sherlock's hands came to his back, running down his spine.

"…quite…"

Sherlock's voice was lower, breath coming in faster, as John continued kissing downward. John found Sherlock's chest very interesting, and he wanted to pay it as much attention as possible. He moved his hands up Sherlock's sides as he reached one of nipples.

"…stimulating…"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as John took one nipple into his mouth. He sucked on it, pulling the skin, and then rolled his tongue around it, tasting the sweat of Sherlock's skin and the soap from the previous day's shower. He nipped at it and gave it one last lick before kissing further down. Sherlock's back arched, and John smiled into his skin. It was titillating to know that he was doing this to the man who decried sentiment and romance entirely.

"John, what're you…"

Sherlock grabbed at John's hair, fingers tangled, gripping it like a lifeline. John ran one hand on the underside of his thigh as he continued kissing down his chest, laying kisses haphazardly across his skin. He could feel something becoming aroused as Sherlock writhed beneath him, pushing heat through his body, straight to his groin.

"John," said Sherlock, with a bit more determination, "where are you going?"

"Why don't you make a deduction?" said John softly, his breath falling over Sherlock's erection.

* * *

By late evening, Sherlock had grown incredibly annoyed with John, mainly because John had insisted in putting clothes on. Sherlock argued that there was no reason to get dressed, but John told him that he would not be walking around starkers when Mrs. Hudson could walk in at any time. This led to John lying on the couch reading a book while Sherlock put his head in his lap, John's laptop on his chest.

The day had passed quickly for John. He spent the morning in bed with Sherlock, and they took their time, learning each other's bodies, although Sherlock took it a step further. He adamantly asked John to explain the story behind every scar on his body, so that he could learn where everything came from. John wasn't sure why Sherlock was so obstinate on hearing it, but it was nice for John to share without having to worry whether or not Sherlock would find it ugly. Sherlock seemed to regard it as another aspect of John's personality, as interesting as why John preferred milk in his tea, but not sugar. John learned that Sherlock enjoyed kissing, nibbling, and biting on every single inch of his body.

John was contemplating going to bed, and taking Sherlock with him, when the doorbell rang. It was odd, since Mycroft always phoned ahead, and Mrs. Hudson usually opened the door immediately after knocking, so it meant they had a guest. Sherlock immediately sat up, springing up like a cat. He turned to John, slightly confused. John motioned to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock rolled his eyes but stood, walking almost silently to his bedroom, shutting the door without a sound. In case they received a visitor, this was their plan to keep Sherlock's return a secret. John opened the front door, surprised to find Lestrade on his doorstep.

"Hey, Greg," he said, "what brings you here?"

"You haven't returned my calls," said Lestrade, "so I came over to apologize."

"For what?"

"Well, last time we-"

"That was two months ago," interrupted John, "and we've spoken since."

"Yeah, but just a couple texts." Lestrade shrugged. "Then I heard you moved back in here."

"How did you here?"

"I went back to your old flat, and you weren't there. I figured this was where you'd gone."

"How'd you find me then?"

Lestrade said, "I do work for Scotland Yard. Not exactly difficult."

"Come on in," said John, moving aside to allow Lestrade through. "I'll put on the kettle."

John snuck a sideways glance at Sherlock's bedroom as he walked into the kitchen. Sherlock was going to be angry and probably sulk even more after Lestrade's visit. It required him to be confined to his bedroom for who knows how long, and Sherlock never took time to think in his bedroom. He never took time to sleep in it either. John used to wonder why he had a bed in there, until Sherlock insisted that John take up residence in it.

"So how are things?" asked Lestrade, taking a seat in Sherlock's armchair.

John remembered the drugs bust, seeing Lestrade sit there so casually as he scolded Sherlock for withholding evidence. He had seemed like an overbearing father, chastising him for being out too late or coloring on the sofa. It had been strange for him to suddenly be flung into their world of crime and insults, like an outsider, unable to fully understand. Now, Lestrade seemed out of place to John, sitting where Sherlock had sat. Even with Sherlock back, and John trying to understand it, it felt like Sherlock and John's world now.

"Oh, fine," said John, taking a seat while the kettle boiled. "Been a bit busy, actually."

"Yeah? With what?"

"Extra shifts, mostly," he lied casually. "How're the kids?"

"Oh, themselves," said Lestrade as he turned his head, and a small smile graced his face.

"What is it?" asked John curiously.

Lestrade pointed to the yellow smiley face and stood, walking slowly over to it.

"He was a nutter," said Lestrade fondly. "Completely out of his mind."

"Yes," said John quietly.

(Does Lestrade love him the way he loves his children?)

"You know," he said as he turned back to John, "I remember-"

He stopped suddenly, staring down the hallway and then to John, looking surprised and concerned.

"Why do you sleep in his bedroom?"

John was taken aback. He had only spent last night in Sherlock's bed. How on earth could Lestrade possibly know? He was intelligent, but not the master of deduction Sherlock was.

"I'm not, and why would it matter if I did?" he asked, slightly offended. He didn't know what it was that offended him. (Is it because I love that bed?)

"Then why is the bedroom light-shit."

John stood as Lestrade reached back to draw his gun. He looked down the hallway and saw that the bedroom light was indeed on. It was also quite obvious that someone was standing in front of the bedroom door, creating a shadow in the crack underneath.

"John, get back," hissed Lestrade urgently.

"It's not a burglar," said John.

Lestrade moved to stand right next to John and said in his ear, "Someone is in there, John."

"Lestrade, calm down, and stay here."

Before Lestrade could protest again, John walked down the hall, and the door opened just as he approached. Sherlock sighed, and John glared at him.

"Good fucking job," he said. "Now we have someone else in on it. You know the more people who know a secret, the harder it is to keep?"

Sherlock said nothing and walked around John, his dressing gown whirling with all its usual dramatic flair. He stood before Lestrade and said, "Nice to see you again."

Lestrade's mouth opened and closed several times, attempting to form words, before his jaw simply dropped, eyes wide and incredulous. It suddenly occurred to John that he should have told Lestrade to put his gun away.

"You-" Lestrade gesticulated wildly, gun safety seemingly going out the window, since his pistol was still in his hand.

"Me," said Sherlock simply."

"But-"

"No."

"Yes-"

"Clearly not," said Sherlock, taking a seat in his armchair.

"I don't..." Lestrade looked to John as if he would hold all the answers.

"Your reaction is better than John's so far. He fainted, then punch me in the face and chased me around the room."

"I only chased you because you ran away with your tail between your legs."

Sherlock shot a glare in John's direction and said, "You should put your gun away, Lestrade. Wouldn't want any accidents."

Lestrade slid his gun into the holster and then stared at Sherlock for several seconds. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response, causing the detective inspector to shake his head, throw his arms in the air, and plop onto the sofa.

"Why am I not surprised," he muttered under his breath, bringing his forehead to the palm of his hand.

"You should be. I was very thorough."

"So was Mycroft," said John.

"Mycroft knew long before anyone else did."

"Good to know he earned your trust so easily," muttered John darkly, turning his eyes to the floor. (Can I ever get over this?)

John was certain Sherlock stared at him, possibly hurt, surprised, bemused. He honestly didn't want to know what Sherlock's response to that would be. (Will I ever stop being angry?)

"So how'd you do it then?" asked Lestrade, dropping his hand.

"Molly," replied Sherlock.

"Molly Hooper?" said Lestrade incredulously.

"Despite her naivety, she is a skilled physician."

"I know that, but I didn't think you did."

"Lucky for me, Moriarty didn't." Sherlock sighed and looked at Lestrade pointedly. "John didn't see my body on the ground. He saw a body with my face."

"And where did you land?"

"A lorry filled with trash bags."

"Comfortable landing," said John scathingly, raising his face to stare at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked as if he'd been slapped in the face, but John fixed his gaze on him. His expression conveyed a combination of anger and defiance, as if he dared him to try to apologize again. Lestrade's eyes moved back and forth between them as if watching a tennis match and trying to determine who had the advantage.

"Well, good to have you back, I suppose," he said suddenly, as if trying to break the tension.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his face returning to its usual disdainful repose, and turned to Lestrade, saying, "That's all you have to say?"

"What else is there to say?" said Lestrade

"Nothing else, I suppose."

Lestrade left some time later, when he had been updated on what their plan was. He had promised to keep an eye out for another case relating to Moran, although John doubted he could do much, especially in comparison to Mycroft. It felt good to have someone else on their side.

"Well, at least we can trust Lestrade," said John, entering the sitting room after seeing Lestrade out. "Better him than others, I suppose."

"You mean others finding out," said Sherlock as he stood and strode toward John.

"Yes, that is what I meant."

"Can we expect any other visitors?" Sherlock stopped walked when he stood right in front of John, leaving just a few inches of space between them. "Unexpected surprises?"

"I doubt it."

"Not even Moriarty?"

"Stop it," said John quietly, feeling the same anger that had been raging through him begin to build again. "I'm not going to keep having this fight with you."

"It'll keep happening as long as you remain angry with me," replied Sherlock, equally angry.

"How else am I supposed to feel?" (Why am I so angry?)

"You tell me."

Sherlock strode toward John, backing him up against the wall. John put his hands against his chest as if to push him away, but they remained in that position. Despite the fact that his heart sped up, John did not want to kiss Sherlock in that moment. He hated how Sherlock called Richard Moriarty, and he hated that Sherlock hadn't brought him in on his plan. He didn't care that it was to protect him, not when he felt he could have helped Sherlock.

"John…"

Sherlock's voice was soft, almost gentle, as he reached out and lightly stroked his face. He leaned down to kiss him, but John put a thumb to his lips, to keep him back. Part of him was still angry, but his anger, and Sherlock's lips, turned him on. He swallowed heavily, trying to push back the lust, but Sherlock was so close to him. (Why can't I think when he's this close?)

Sherlock kissed the tip of John's finger, and John decided to throw all his concerns out the window. He grabbed Sherlock by the neck and pulled him down for a deep, fervid kiss. Sherlock immediately responded, pinning John against the wall with his hips and dragging his hands down his sides. Eventually, they would tear themselves from the wall, although their lips would remain enthusiastically locked together, only because John insisted that he wasn't going to be intimate in the sitting room as long as Mrs. Hudson was downstairs. They would stay in the bed until John had to go to work the next morning, causing Sherlock to declare that employment was not only useless, but irritating, and John would promise to take his clothes off as soon as he got home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta Emily for finding all my mistakes! The chapter title is a Snow Patrol song. Thanks for all the kudos and comments!


	10. For A Pessimist, I'm Pretty Optimistic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there's always trouble in paradise.

John wanted to go straight home after work, but he'd already planned on meeting Richard for coffee. At first, he wasn't entirely sure why Richard wanted to meet up. He'd told Richard everything he knew about Moriarty. As he sat down in the coffee shop where they'd first met, John realized how stupid he was. Richard had no more questions for him. He just wanted to maintain a friendship with him. When Richard sat before him, a package in his hands, John smiled and wondered if he wanted this to continue. (Why can't I get rid of the guilt?)

"Here," said Richard, handing John the package as he sat.

"What is this?" asked John curiously.

"I know you mentioned it once," he said. "Said your mum read it to you as a kid. I don't know if you found Harry a birthday gift, but I thought it might work."

John unwrapped the paper and felt his heart swell. It was an old copy of _The Tale of Peter Rabbit_ , old enough to look like the copy his mother had read to Harry and him as children. He ran his hand over the cover and thumbed through the pages, the scent of ancient paper filtering through his nose.

"You said you haven't felt connected to your sister since you were kids," said Richard, staring down at his hands. "And then you mentioned this book, and…I think family is important. Even though I don't have any."

"Richard." (Why is he so wonderful to me?)

John put his hand on Richard's, who looked up, slightly confused. He looked down at their hands, and John followed his gaze. Quickly, he pulled his hand away, holding the book again. (Why was that so strange?)

"Sorry—I—this is really lovely," said John. "Thank you."

"It's nothing, really." Richard smiled weakly. "We got a copy in, so I snagged it for you. It just felt right. Take it as a thank you for everything you've done."

"Everything I've done?" asked John.

"Before we started talking, I was so alone; and while I'm still trying to come to terms with all of this, I feel better about myself. Not great, and I can't explain it. Somehow, knowing the truth about myself, even though I don't really remember it or feel it, it seems to make a difference. Bless you, John."

Richard took his hand again, and John closed his eyes. Sherlock had told him every awful detail of their meeting on the roof of St. Bart's, and Richard's words echoed the moment before the gunshot, the moment when everything spiraled out of control.

"John?" asked Richard, his voice filled with concern. "John, are you all right? You look almost as scared as you did by the pool."

John's eyes snapped open and bored a hole into Richard. His heart pounded in his chest, a strange combination of fear and apprehension twisting his stomach, pulling it into his throat. (Did that just happen?)

"Richard," said John quietly, "I told you about what happened at the pool, but there is no way you could actually _know_ what I looked like, unless you were there."

Richard sat back in the seat, swallowing heavily. His lower lip trembled, and he pulled at his hair. John's heart broke for him. This man was not Moriarty anymore. There was no way he had deceived John. But if he was beginning to remember, if Richard Brook was fading away, then John had no idea how to deal with it.

"He said this might happen," sobbed Richard, tears pouring out of his eyes.

He took several deep breaths, and a few other restaurant patrons glanced over at them. Richard buried his face in his hands, still tugging at a few strands of his hair. John ignored the other customers and placed a hand on Richard's wrist. It was the closest thing to comfort he could offer him. He wondered if Richard could remember Moriarty and remain himself, or if he would start to revert back to what he used to be. If the former, John had no idea if Richard would be able to handle it. If the latter, John had no idea if he would be able to handle it.

"Who said this might happen?" asked John softly.

"I thought I was seeing a dead man," whispered Richard, his voice shaking, lowering his hands, which trembled terribly. He wiped at his nose with his sleeve and inhaled deeply to calm himself. "I looked your blog and everything up before we spoke, and I thought he looked just like Sherlock, but he told me I was mistaken."

John dropped Richard's wrist and sat back in the chair, curling his left hand into a tight fist. It was if Richard had just loosened forth a cascade of emotions onto John; fear, rage, and betrayal all swirled through his chest, threatening to rip out of him in a waterfall of tears and shouting.

"Richard," he said quietly, trying to keep his voice even, "tell me what he looked like. The man who told you to come talk to me. What did he look like?"

"He was tall and thin," said Richard, looking up at John, "with curly black hair, and his eyes, so blue, pale…"

"I have to go," said John suddenly

He stood and knocked over his chair loudly. It rattled to the floor, and they received many more looks that time. Richard stood, still crying softly, and grabbed John's wrist.

"John, he's dead," said Richard urgently, as if to shake sense into him. "The man said he was someone else, always mistaken for him. It was just a coincidence—"

"No, he's not dead," said John angrily. "He came back a few weeks ago. I have to go. I'm sorry."

John left the coffee shop, ignoring Richard's desperate pleas behind him. He hailed a cab and shouted his address to the cabbie, who huffed and began to drive. He didn't care that he took his rage out on a stranger. John's hands shook with fury, and he ran his fingers through his hair. His mind moved at high speed, attempting to comprehend _why_ Sherlock would do this. It was a blatant manipulation. If Richard really was starting to remember, if they successfully drew Moran out into the open as Sherlock had wanted, then he also would have effectively manipulated John into doing it for him.

When the cab pulled up outside Baker St., John threw some notes at him and slammed the door shut behind him. He slammed the front door of the flat so hard that the front of the building shook. He stomped up the stairs and pushed the door of their flat shut even harder. Sherlock looked up from where he was on the sofa a deep, confusing frown on his face,

"John?" he said questioningly, slowly getting to his feet.

"You fucking son of a bitch!" shouted John, striding toward Sherlock.

"John, what is this all about?"

"I just had a chat with Richard," he said angrily, "and he started to have a breakdown when he began to _remember_. He _remembers_ the incident at the pool. Then Richard said, 'He told me this might happen.' The man who told him to come to me for his memories."

Sherlock turned and strode toward the window, fingering the fabric of the old curtains. He stared at the material, and all John wanted to do was punch him in the face, scream at him, ask him why he'd done this. (Why can't he just love me the way a normal person does?)

"It was for the best," said Sherlock simply, withdrawing his hand and turning to John. "There was no way Moran was going to make a move. I told you that I have him cornered, but he's still just out of my reach. I can't find him, but if I draw him out, if Richard draws him out, then there is a chance to end this. As soon as Moran is eliminated, I can live without fear that he will harm you. As soon as he's gone, you can live safely. I will not apologize for doing everything in my power to ensure your safety."

"I talked to Richard for two months," said John, taking in deep breaths as he walked around the coffee table toward Sherlock. "Two months before you came back to me I was speaking with him. Why did you tell me you couldn't stay away from me, then? Why did you tell me that you wanted to _show_ me how much you cared?"

* * *

" _As long as I'm in London, I know that I can't stay away from you," said Sherlock quietly, returning his gaze to the window._

_John stood and slowly made his way toward Sherlock. He seemed like a glorious statue, staring out the window, his eyes not really seeing. John could practically hear the gears turning in his head. The man thought so fast that John would never be able to catch up, even in his wildest dreams. But in the twilight, his features seemed softened, almost touchable._

" _If there was some other way," said Sherlock softly, turning his eyes to John, "I could show you how much I—no."_

_He turned back to the window._

" _As long as there is still work to do," he said, ostensibly more to himself than John, "I cannot leave any space in my mind for sentiment."_

" _Sentiment?" asked John quietly._

" _I jumped off a roof for you, John," said Sherlock, turning back to him. "If that's not sentiment, if that is not me_ showing _you how much I care, then…"_

_He trailed off. There was, of course, another way that Sherlock could show him. His arm reached out and held John's face. John shut his eyes and leaned into the touch. He felt the calluses on Sherlock's fingers, from spending too much time wielding a gun, and he thought how glorious it felt to finally touch him. His eyes snapped open, and John pulled away. Sherlock frowned, quickly lowering his hand._

" _I need time, Sherlock," said John. "Time to understand this. Maybe then…"_

" _Take all the time you need," said Sherlock, his voice clipped, even, as if he had just boxed away all his emotions. "I only ask that you take your time here, where it will be much easier for me to protect you."_

* * *

"Because I care for you more than anyone else," said Sherlock, his voice low, almost dangerous, as he walked slowly toward John. "Because I jumped off a building and spent three years destroying, killing, doing whatever I had to in order to ensure that the men, who worked for a man that intended to harm you, would no longer exist. There is one man left who had _direct_ orders to shoot you as long as I am alive, and that man knows that I am back in London. So as long as he lives, I will do _anything_ necessary to keep you out of harm's way. If your feelings get hurt along the way, then so be it."

Sherlock stood just an inch from John, leaned in slightly toward him. John placed his hand against Sherlock's chest, pushing him back. As much as John knew that Sherlock cared, he couldn't stand the lies, the manipulation. It was a step too far, especially when there was so much at stake. He said nothing, but turned and began to walk out of the flat. (Why can't I think around him?)

"John?" asked Sherlock, his expression softening, turning anxious, hesitant. "John, where are you going?"

"Out," said John harshly. "To think. I have to think, and I can't _think_ when you're around me, Sherlock. All I can do is feel, but I have to think about us."

He didn't say another word to Sherlock. John slammed the door shut and burst onto the street, the cold, autumn air hitting him, filling his lungs, pulling him into reality. He stalked down the street and felt Sherlock's eyes on him, watching him through the curtains. He didn't look back, because if he did, then John would've run right back into the flat. His eyes remained focused forward, and after walking a few blocks, pulled out his mobile, dialing Richard. The phone rang just twice before Richard answered.

"John?" he asked confusedly.

"What are you doing right now?"

"I'm just at home."

"Meet me at that pub a few blocks from your flat as soon as you can."

Before Richard could say anything else, John hung up the phone and was barreling down into a tube station. He had no patience to hail a taxi and wait in traffic. His body was thrumming, anger coursing through him. As much as he knew that Sherlock could never say he loved him, as much as he showed John in all his actions, John still felt betrayed. Sherlock had been so angry after every conversation John had with Richard, yet he was the one who had sent him in John's direction. Their meetings had upset John, given him flashbacks, nightmares, but waking up with Sherlock holding him close wasn't enough, not when Sherlock was the catalyst that set them off.

It was dark when John emerged from the underground and entered the pub. It was a dingy little place, half-full, with many patrons confined to their own tables. John found Richard already waiting for him, two pints on the table. John sat and let out a deep breath.

"All right?" asked Richard.

"I should be asking you that," said John.

John took a large gulp of the drink, downing at least a quarter of it. Warmth spread through his chest as he set the glass back down and rubbed at his eyes. Alcohol would not help him think, but it would at least deaden his feelings for a little while.

"I remember very little," replied Richard, "but I don't _feel_ different. I still feel like me."

"That's good."

John smiled weakly as he and Richard both took large drinks of their beer. He asked Richard to talk about _anything_ else besides Sherlock, besides their problems. They talked about mundane details in their lives, discussed the physical merits of two women at the bar. John had drunk his pint rather quickly, and his brain was already beginning to feel fuzzy. Richard grabbed him by the arm and took him out of the bar, onto the street. It was a quiet neighborhood, and Richard kept one arm around him as they walked. (Why am I thinking like this?)

"I'm so mad at him," said John angrily. "I just—I could really hurt him."

"John."

Richard dragged John into an alleyway off the street, looking concerned.

"I think you really care about this man," he said, "and he screwed up. But don't make it worse by—"

John could think of one way to really hurt Sherlock. He pressed up against Richard and kissed him, pinning him to the wall with his hips. Richard gasped in surprise and put his hands on John's shoulders, as if to push him away, but he didn't. His lips responded to John's, their tongues meeting one another. Richard tasted like beer, and it was intoxicating. John's hands moved up his chest while Richard wrapped his arms around his waist, fingers gathering at the small of his back, underneath his jumper. John's body was hot from the beer, thrumming with desire. His desire was not for Richard. He knew that. His mind was screaming at him to stop. Nothing in him really wanted Richard, but Richard was there, and so willing, so desperate for affection. John loved to be affectionate, but he wasn't sure that Sherlock would always take it.

Richard's hips moved up against John, and John responded in kind. His body just wanted someone, but his mind wanted Sherlock. He kissed down Richard's neck, sucking at the skin, as Richard's hands moved down, gathering fistfuls of his rear. He pulled John into him, and John was quite certain that he would take Richard against this wall if they didn't stop soon. As he ravaged Richard's neck, his coherent thoughts fell away, replaced by his body, by the heat pushing through him.

"Sherlock," he murmured into Richard's neck, nipping lightly as the flesh.

"That's fine," said Richard softly into his hear, his voice strangled by desire. "It's all fine."

John stopped and pulled himself away from Richard, backing into the opposite wall of the alleyway. He ran his hands through his air, taking in deep breaths of the cold, evening air. It was sobering, to have the space between them, the cold bringing him back to reality. (Why am I doing this?) (Why does part of me want to keep going?)

"I'm sorry," said John quickly. "That was stupid of me. I just—I can't."

"John, it's fine," said Richard, walking forward.

"No, it's not okay."

"Yes, John, it is."

Richard closed the distance between them and kissed him again. John could smell his soap and the scent of old books clinging to his skin. He desperately wanted to be touched, to have someone tell him that it was fine. No, he had that already. In reality, he wanted Sherlock to be the one touching him, telling him that it was fine. His hands were at Richard's back, and they were kissing like their lives depended on it, tongues, lips, and teeth coming together in a messy amalgamation of lust and desperation. Richard shoved John's legs apart with his knees, his erection pressing against John's thigh. John moaned Sherlock's name into their lips again, and suddenly, something in him snapped.

"Richard, stop."

It took every ounce of strength and willpower in John's body to speak, but he knew this was a bad decision. The rational side of his brain broke through the wall of lust their bodies had erected, making him see sense again. Richard pulled away, frowning deeply. He took several steps back and leaned against the opposite wall, panting slightly. In that moment, John had never hated himself more. It wasn't that he had kissed someone else. It was because he did not see Richard staring at him. He only saw Moriarty, and of all the people to kiss, he had to pick the one that would hurt Sherlock the most.

"I can't do this," said John, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have manipulated you like that."

Without another word, he left the alleyway. John couldn't see Richard's face. He felt as if he had just betrayed their friendship. If Richard really was beginning to remember, then no matter what, he would be Moriarty to John. It wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair for John to push him against a wall like that, when he was horny from drinking beer and still angry at Sherlock. (What if I hadn't stopped?)

He took a cab back to Baker St., wallowing in abject misery. He was quite certain that Sherlock would never forgive him for this, not when John had just shouted at him about betrayal and manipulation. While he had just manipulated Richard physically, he had also exploited Sherlock emotionally.

Inside the flat, the silence was oppressive. Sherlock was gone, and this worried John. Mycroft had been very clear that Sherlock not leave, just in case Moran decided to make a daring move. John pulled out his phone and texted him.

_Sherlock, where did you go?_

_You're not supposed to leave. I'm worried._

John waited by his phone in the sitting room, drinking tea, washing the beer out of his system. The ache between his legs took a long time to go away, but John wouldn't touch himself, out of some sense of guilt. The beer had worn off by the time his phone went off, but it was not Sherlock texting him. It was Richard calling him.

"Richard?" he asked, confused. "What do you want?"

"John…"

He could tell that Richard was crying, or close to it. His voice quivered with fear, and John thought he heard a voice in the background.

"Richard, what's wrong?"

"You need to come to the roof of St. Bart's," he said shakily. "Right now."

"Whose with you? Richard, tell me what's going on."

"John, I'm—"

John heard rustling and shouted Richard's name into the phone again. A different voice was on the other line, one he didn't recognize. The voice was rough, probably from heavy smoking.

"Come to play, Dr. Watson," said the man dangerously. "Or both your playthings are going to take a tumble."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, what have I done? The drama will only increase next chapter. There could be a bit of action too, but I don't want to spoil anything! All my love to Emily for finding my errors! The chapter title is a song by Paramore. Thanks again for reading!


	11. Born To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another rooftop encounter at St. Bart's. What could possibly go wrong?

John maintained a steady heart rate as he walked swiftly through the halls of St. Bart's. He kept his breathing normal, even though he wanted to throw logic out the window and run onto the roof guns blazing. He was certain that would ensure a bad ending for everyone. His left hand didn't shake as he made his way up the stairs. His gun felt secure at the waist of his trousers, hidden under his coat. Just as he was about go up the last set of stairs, a voice called his name. (Why must I always bring my gun?)

"John, it's Molly."

He stopped and turned. Molly was just a few steps below him, emerging from a doorway. She looked surprised and rather earnest, holding several files in her hands.

"Molly," he said slowly. "Hi—sorry—I have to—"

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm really sorry, John."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"I can't tell you."

John walked toward her, pausing when he was a few feet away. He had heard references to what Sherlock had done to survive, but he refused to listen to the whole story. Truth be told, he didn't want to know how Sherlock had done it. It didn't matter how impressive or clever it was. For three years, it had ruined his life, so John had no desire to learn the details. (Will people find it impressive?)

"You helped him?" he asked quietly.

Molly's face transformed into a deep, confused frown. She had no idea John was aware Sherlock was back. John sighed and said, "Molly, don't apologize. You helped save his life."

"But—"

"Molly."

John strode forward, his voice urgent, holding her gently by her biceps.

"Something is about to happen," he said quickly. "On the roof. I'm not sure what. I called Lestrade and Mycroft, but they're trying to do this quietly."

"John," she said, her voice shaking, "John, what—"

"Leave," he said earnestly. "It's late. You should be home. Get out of here."

"But—"

"I don't know what's going to happen, so just get away from here, all right?"

John dropped her and went back up the stairs, ignoring her confused calls of his name.

Lestrade told John he'd be nearby, waiting for the first sign that things were going wrong. John knew that Lestrade would never get to them in time. Mycroft said he'd assemble a team. John had no idea what sort of team that was, but he assumed that Mycroft had the entire military on speed dial, even if they didn't know it.

The roof of St. Bart's had its pros and cons. For Sherlock and John, it was the home field advantage. More for Sherlock than John, since he didn't know what he was walking into. He was going to Sebastian, possibly heading straight into a trap. Of course, he could always just shove him off the roof, but Sebastian could do the same. If anything terrible happened, it would take Lestrade time to get to them, and John feared that every second counted. As he opened the door and walked out into the roof, John focused his attention, hoping that he had learned _something_ from Sherlock. Maybe he would see an advantage.

A combination of moonlight and city lights illuminated the roof somewhat. Shadows were thrown from the small structures that littered the area, but John had a clear view of what was before him. He walked to where Sherlock had called him from, and to where he stood now, staring at John impassively. His hair fluttered lightly in the breeze, and he looked strange to John, outside without his large coat. Sebastian stood next to him, a gun held steady in his hand, pointed straight at his head. (Why here?) (Why now?)

Sebastian was almost the same height as Sherlock, with a short haircut, and tattoos on his hand and wrist. A long scar ran down the side of his face, and he was finishing up a cigarette. When John looked at him, he thought "military." This may have been Sherlock finally rubbing off on him, or just a random guess. (Can I be as clever as Sherlock needs me to be?)

Richard sat on the edge of the roof, hugging himself and crying quietly. His cardigan was skewed, and John noticed a small cut on his temple. He assumed Sebastian had coerced Richard to coming here. He had no idea how much Richard remembered, if he had flickers or fully-fledged memories seeping back in. (What if his personality changes?) Either way, he was still unstable, a ticking time bomb, and anything could set him off. John knew that he was prone to serious mood swings and had tried to take his life once, just after he awoke from the coma. This incident, however it ended, would be many steps back for him. (Can anyone help him?)

"Evening," said Sebastian casually.

"What's happening here?" asked John.

He attempted to maintain his calm façade, but it was slowly eroding. He locked eyes with Sherlock, whose face was in his natural repose. However, his eyes said something else. They bored a hole into him, and John felt as if Sherlock were seeing every thought in his head.

"I had orders," said Sebastian. "I had to see Sherlock jump, or I killed you. Yet here he is."

"Why now? You must've known for some time he was alive. I wasn't hiding."

"I thought maybe if Jim got better he would develop a new plan, an even more clever way to kill Sherlock. But I don't think Jim is coming back."

"Please," said Richard, tugging at his hair, "please, please stop calling me by that name."

He looked up at John, his lip trembling. John walked slowly toward him, keeping an eye on Sebastian as he did so. He held out his hand to Richard, who took it, crying into his palm softly.

"How sweet," muttered Sebastian sarcastically.

"He's terrified," said John harshly. "What do you expect?"

"I'd expect you to go running for your detective," said Sebastian scathingly, "but maybe you don't want him anymore."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," snarled John.

"Don't I?"

Sebastian pointed the gun at John, his hands steady. Sherlock moved one foot back to step away, but Sebastian turned to look at him. John backed away from Jim to his original position with his hands raised.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said softly, dangerously. "Jim?"

Richard looked up at him, still quivering, but his tears had stopped. He slowly stood, a gun held in his shaky hands. He pointed it at Sherlock as Sebastian walked toward John pressing the gun to his forehead. The cool steel hit him right between the eyes, and John raised his hands. Sebastian moved around him and kicked him behind the knees. John grunted as he landed at his feet. (Where is my advantage? )

Richard could barely hold the gun. Sherlock had his hands in the air, but his eyes roamed all over Richard. John knew that his mind was moving as fast as it could to get them out of this. If anything, he figured the gun would accidentally fire in Richard's trembling hands. Sebastian pressed the gun to the back of his head, and John looked to Sherlock.

"I don't want to do this," cried Richard, his voice shaking from fear.

"Then don't," replied Sherlock simply.

"Jim," said Sebastian, a warning tone to his voice.

"I can't do this," whimpered Richard.

"Don't," said Sherlock, softly yet earnestly.

"Talk again, Sherlock," said Sebastian, "and the doctor's brains land all over the roof."

"I don't want this."

Richard pointed the gun at Sebastian now, but the way he held it, John was certain a bullet would hit either of them. Sebastian bristled behind him, but kept the gun steady.

"This is what you wanted, Jim."

"I'M NOT MORIARTY!" he screamed.

John jumped at his outburst and looked at Sherlock. His face revealed nothing, but their eyes met. John had no idea how this would end, so he tried to show Sherlock how sorry he was, how much he loved him. If it registered with him, Sherlock didn't reveal it in his face. He looked at Richard closely, but John could not tell what was happening behind his eyes.

"End this," said Richard, his lip trembling again. "This is done. Over."

"If you're not Jim," replied Sebastian, "then you don't have the ability to call this off."

"You want me to be him."

"I'm just following orders."

"Why? Why follow an order that no one cares about?"

"It was my last order," said Sebastian quietly, "and I'm a loyal soldier."

"Step away from him," said Richard angrily. "Now."

Sebastian walked to John's right, pointing the gun at the ground. He was diagonal from Sherlock, who eyed him as if he were some curious specimen. Richard followed Sebastian with the gun, tears leaking from his eyes again. John slowly stood and pulled his gun, keeping it fixed on Sebastian.

"This is ending," said Richard firmly. "On your knees. Now."

"Jim," whispered Sebastian, looking up at him with a mixture of betrayal and anger in his eyes, "Jim, you were all I had."

"I know."

Richard slowly backed away from Jim and put the gun to his temple.

"NO, RICHARD!"

John shouted so quickly that Richard started and stared at him. John put his other hand up in hopes that he would lower the gun. He kept his own weapon pointed on Sebastian, who looked ready to spring up at any second. Richard's lower lip quivered again as John took a few steps toward him. (Can I fix this?)

"No!" yelled Richard. "Don't come any closer!"

"Okay," said John slowly. "Okay, it's fine, Richard. It's all fine."

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock as he slowly set the gun down. Richard glanced at it, and John kicked it a few feet away from him. It slid across the roof, coming to a stop when it hit the short barrier. He put his hands in the air and glanced at Sherlock, who did the same. Sebastian's eyes roamed over Richard as he laced his fingers together at the back of his head. A cloud passed over the moon, making the roof seem much darker with the light obscured.

"No one wants to get hurt," said John gently, "and none of us want you to get hurt. See? Even Sebastian isn't going for a weapon right now."

Richard shook his head as more tears spilled from his eyes.

"I don't want my old life," he said, his voice shaking terribly, strangled by fear and emotion. "I don't want that. I remember...just a little, images, flashes of things. And I hate it. I don't want to remember."

"It's okay. You don't have to go back to that."

"What choice do I have? I don't want you to die. You're the only friend I've ever known, John, and I don't know how to stop him killing you."

"And what good will killing yourself do?"

"You don't even want me as a friend. You just wanted to tell me the truth and get out before it got too complicated."

"And we became friends anyway, didn't we?" said John somewhat hopefully.

"What good did it do?" said Richard, pushing the tip of the gun into his temple. "All we learned is that you love Sherlock, and you don't _really_ want me, John. You just wanted to make Sherlock feel as betrayed as you did. No one cares about me."

"Sebastian does," countered John.

"I don't think we can agree well enough to make anything work," said Richard firmly. "None of you are going to die."

The next few things that happened occurred very quickly. Richard stood up straight suddenly, his chin held high. Sebastian lunged forward and tackled Richard to the ground. The gun fell from his hands and skidded across the ground, bumping into the other one. Sherlock ran and grabbed it, just as Sebastian jumped up. Sebastian's hands wrapped around Sherlock's throat. He shoved them into the barrier, and they were dangerously close to falling off. Sherlock was leaning over the edge, struggling to pull Sebastian's tight fingers from his neck. John immediately sprang to help him, but Richard tackled him. His head slammed into the roof, and stars burst behind his eyes.

Suddenly, everything was moving very slowly. Richard moved off of him instantly and threw himself to the other gun lying just a few feet from them. Sherlock's hand rose to press the gun to Sebastian's head, but his face was blue from losing oxygen. The gun slipped from his fingers, and John sat up. He reached out and tried to crawl forward. As the gun skidded toward him, he looked up at Sherlock.

Their eyes met, and that last second seemed to last an eternity. John saw everything in his eyes. He saw that Sherlock was sorry, that he loved him, that he wished he had done better by him. John felt the gun enter his hands and began to stand. The sound of a gunshot pulled his attention away.

His eyes tore from Sherlock to his right, where Richard was sitting against the barrier, his eyes wide and unseeing. The gun was limp in his hands, and John could see that the back of his skull was gone. Where Moriarty had failed, Richard had succeeded. A strangled cry brought John's attention back to where Sherlock and Sebastian were.

Or where they had been. He saw nothing. The gun fell from John's hands, and his heart stopped. For a second, the world stopped turning. John felt himself reliving Sherlock's death all over again, as he shouted his name and saw his once and future lover plummet to the earth. The light went out in John's world as he stared at the spot, seeing nothing, except for the void where his heart used to be.

"John!"

It was Sherlock's voice, a panicked cry for help, yet John didn't see him. Had he begun to hallucinate him coming back to life already? The wishful thought entered his mind, and then John squinted. As the cloud passed completely over the moon, more light shone on the roof. John saw Sherlock's hand at the edge of the roof, knuckles white as he held on for dear life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it? Unfortunately, my beta and I have lives, school, and I'm moving soon, so we're both quite busy. But we're almost done! Thanks to everyone for all the comments and kudos! The chapter title is a song by Lana Del Rey.


	12. Love Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't want Sherlock to fall. Not again. Never again.

"SHERLOCK!"

Terror, horror, ruin, devastation, anguish, grief, destruction, dread, and agony all combined together, strangled John's voice. He had no time to feel these things, although he was aware somewhere in the back of his mind that they were there. He leaped forward and grabbed Sherlock's arm.

John held him just above elbow, grasping his bicep. He leaned over as far as he could, his stomach pressing into the edge of the barrier. Sherlock's hair fluttered in the wind as he looked up at John. He was holding on for dear life, his fingers barely able to hold his weight as they gripped the slick wall. On the ground, Sebastian's body was in a heap. John held onto Sherlock with every ounce of strength that he had. (Why, why, why?)

"I'm sorry, John," called Sherlock. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't you do this!" shouted John. "Don't give up on me!"

"I love you, John."

"Shut up," hissed John. "Grab my arm. I'll pull. Use the other one to help drag you over."

For a second, something flickered in Sherlock's eyes that terrified John. Then, with a look of steely determination, Sherlock turned his hand, grabbing tightly onto John's arm. John reached down to grab that arm, pressed his feet against the barrier, and pulled. His muscles screamed at him because as thin as Sherlock was, he was still a very tall man that had some muscle to him, and more than it looked. Sherlock's other hand flew up, grasping the wall tightly, and it looked like it might snap at the knuckles as he used it to help pull them back up. Slowly but surely, John tugged, grunting as he heaved with everything he had. He was not going to let Sherlock fall, not when he was so close, so far from being helpless. (Can I keep living without him?)

Sherlock grunted as John dragged him. His hand grabbed the inner part of the barrier, and his arm shook while he used it to lever himself forward. From somewhere inside of him, John felt another wave of energy overtake him. Maybe it was the adrenaline, unlocked strength he didn't know about, or divine intervention. Either way, John tugged roughly. Combined with Sherlock's attempt to pull himself over, it sent the two of them toppling backward onto the roof.

John landed roughly as Sherlock fell on top of him, his head pressing into John's chest. For a moment, they laid there, panting heavily, not moving any other muscles. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, although they trembled from the effort. It didn't matter. He had his detective, and his three year journey was over. (Is it ever really over?)

"Sherlock," he said, still gasping for breath, "Sherlock, are you all right?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, his voice slightly muffled in the fabric of John's jumper. "You?"

"Fine."

"And Richard?"

John didn't say anything. His eyes flickered to the body, and then back to the cloudy sky. He could see the clouds moving over the stars and the moon, occasionally casting more shadows over them. Sherlock slowly raised himself, staring down at John. He turned to look at Richard and then back to John, frowning.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. (Is he really?)

John sat up on his elbows, looking up at Sherlock. He was surprised because up until the very last moments, Sherlock had believed it was Moriarty still inside their heads. Moriarty would never truly leave, no matter what they did. John knew with total certainty that the consulting criminal would plague his nightmares until the day he died. He would always be Sherlock's greatest fear, the man who had been one step ahead, who had  _nearly_  beaten him.

"Thank you," he replied quietly. "Sherlock, I—"

The door to the roof burst open, and Lestrade ran out, his gun in his hands, and a team behind him. Donovan was hot on his heels, her gun raised, ready to shoot. Lestrade stopped a few feet from them, panting slightly.

"As soon as I heard the gunshot," he began, "I—"

"That," said Sherlock as he stood, "was just before the climax of our struggle."

He held out a hand to John, who took it, wincing slightly. His head throbbed, and he was certain that his body would be sore in the morning. Lestrade glanced from Richard's body, back to them, as Donovan ran to him and felt for a pulse.

"You might notice, Donovan," said Sherlock, brushing dirt off his suit jacket, "that the man is missing half his brain and the back of his skull."

"Sherlock," said John in a warning tone.

Donovan looked up at him, a mixture of anger and sadness on her face, but said nothing. She began speaking into a radio as Lestrade put his gun away. John refused to look over at him. The image he had in his mind already would be burned into the back of his eyelids for the rest of his life.

"Mycroft's team never made it," he said. "Apparently, Moriarty still had another friend out there, besides the one smashed on the ground below. Luckily, he's dead in the explosion that killed your SWAT team."

"One last thread I had missed," murmured Sherlock, staring at the spot where he and Sebastian had gone over.

"I'm sure it was complicated," said Lestrade.

Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug and stood at the spot, staring downward. Just then, a gurney appeared to take Richard away. A few other medics arrived as well and began asking John questions.

"No," protested John, "it's fine—"

"John," said Sherlock sharply, turning around, "you need medical attention. You hit your head hard at least one, if not two, times. I'd prefer that you allowed the doctors to check and see if you're concussed."

John sighed and nodded. A medic dragged him away, but he kept looking over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was speaking rapidly to Lestrade. Sherlock glanced up at him, but his face had resumed its impassive repose.

He had to endure a CT scan, blood work, a urine test, and an utterly miserable stay in the ER before John was given a clean bill of health. He laid in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, floating in a state despondency. (Was he going to let go?) All he could see was Sherlock's face looking up at him. For a brief moment, John had been convinced that Sherlock was going to let go of his hand. (Why would he do that?) (Doesn't he love me?) He wondered if it was because he loved John, just not enough to stay for him, or if it were something else entirely. (Does he  _want_  to love me?)

Eventually, a doctor showed up to tell him that he was mildly concussed (which he could have diagnosed himself) and sent him home with a memo for rest, plenty of fluids, and painkillers. John considered it a complete waste of time. He grunted, his body sore, as he trudged out of the hospital and to the curb.

Further down the street, there were lights shining and a huge crowd of police and onlookers at the spot where Sebastian had fallen. John looked up at the roof, hearing a helicopter overhead that shone a spotlight down upon it. The sound of shouting pulled his attention from the sky.

Further down the road, Sherlock was sitting on a bench, an orange blanket around his shoulders. Lestrade was standing next to him, red in the face and screaming at the Chief Inspector. The Chief Inspector was waving his arms about yelling at the top of his lungs. Sherlock's face remained expressionless as John slowly approached.

"A man is dead on the ground, Lestrade!" yelled the Chief Inspector.

"I already questioned him!" roared Lestrade. "And John's got a bloody concussion! He can come in tomorrow!"

"I've got a dead man walking and a body over there—"

Sherlock stood suddenly and tossed the blanket on the bench. He grabbed John by the arm and pulled him away from the argument. John tried to protest, but the inspectors had failed to notice them walking away. Sherlock kept pulling John, until they were across to the street at a place where he could hail them a cab easily.

"Shouldn't we wait?" asked John.

"Lestrade will sort it all out," said Sherlock as a cab pulled up to them. "He always does."

John said nothing else as he slipped into the cab, and Sherlock followed suit, giving the cabbie their address. He sat back, shut his eyes, and placed his hand on Sherlock's knee, stroking it lightly with his thumb. For the time being, he didn't want to think about anything that had happened, but his heart was heavy. Sherlock put his hand on John's and pushed it away from him. His eyes snapped open, and John turned to look at him.

"Sherlock?" he said incredulously. "What—"

"I'm sorry, John," he said quietly, not turning his eyes from the window, "but this isn't going to work."

"What—wait—what do you mean by 'this'?"

"You and I," he said simply, turning his gaze to John. "My very existence puts your life in danger, and that is unacceptable."

"You've always put my life in danger," he said bluntly.

"It's different now."

"You were going to let go."

John reached out and stroked Sherlock's cheek lightly. Sherlock grabbed his wrist as if to pull him away, but he didn't move. They both sat stiffly, staring at one another. John felt his head begin to reel. He had worked so hard for Sherlock, wanted so desperately just to love him. (How can he end it?)

"You were going to let go, you stupid bastard," murmured John.

"John," said Sherlock softly, "I meant what I said on the roof. Every word."

"Then stay."

John dropped his hand to Sherlock's knee and didn't let go. Sherlock put his hand over his to tear it away, but stopped short. His eyes went downward, and he picked up John's hand, running his fingers over the lines. It was if he were seeing it for the first time, as if there wasn't already a room dedicated in his mind palace to the lifeline running down his palm. He ran one finger slowly down it and raised his gaze slowly to John's.

"I don't want to harm you," he said.

There was something in his voice that made John pause. He wondered then if Sherlock had ever opened himself up to emotions, to love, to anything real before. Sherlock did not know how to work through disagreements and struggle with a significant other. John vowed then and there to show him.

"We're going to hurt each other," he replied, turning his hand over to hold Sherlock's. "We'll fight, say awful things, but then we'll apologize. We may get injured chasing down London's worst, but it'll all be worth it."

"I don't want to put you in harm's way."

"I'm making a conscious decision," said John firmly. "Right now. I'm in this for the long haul. You have to decide if I'm worth it."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and stared at John as if he had just started speaking some kind of alien language. He scooted toward John and held his face in his hands.

"Of course you're worth it," he said urgently.

"Then stay," repeated John quietly.

Sherlock leaned his head against John's shoulder and wrapped his arms around John's chest. John embraced Sherlock and kissed his temple lightly, moving his hand under Sherlock's jacket to rub small circles in his back. He knew that Sherlock might get scared, but John knew that it was his job to convince Sherlock that it was all fine.

"I did mean what I said," murmured Sherlock.

"I know you did," replied John.

"Love is a silly word. My feelings are much deeper than that, and I believe that no word in the English language can accurately capture the depth and enormity of my feelings."

"Who knew you were so romantic?"

Sherlock snorted and raised his head to glare at John, who smiled in response. Sherlock shook his head and said, "I am not romantic, John."

"That whole mind palace thing was just a romantic ploy to get me into bed."

"That happened when we were already in the bed, John. You're not making any sense."

John laughed lightly and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. Immediately, Sherlock's fingers tightened, pulling John closer to him. John kissed Sherlock gently, slowly parting his lips with his tongue. For a few minutes, they just kissed, taking the time to explore each other's mouths. John's hand roamed casually over Sherlock's body. The cab was pulling up to Baker Street when the cabbie shouted, "No shagging in the fucking cab!"

Sherlock tore away from John to glare at the cabbie. John laughed and pulled his wallet out. He was going to give him an extra tip for his troubles, but Sherlock snatched the notes from his hand.

"I assure you that we could have done far worse," he said plainly, "but if we end up in your cab again, I will make sure to fuck this man senselessly into the back seat."

Sherlock threw the money at the cabbie, grabbed John's hand, and pulled him out of the cab. It was pouring down rain, so they ran to the front door, soaked through to the bone almost instantly. John had trouble getting his key into the lock because he was laughing so hard. Sherlock stood directly behind John, already kissing his neck and slipping his hands under John's jumper. When the lock finally gave, John pushed inside, and Sherlock kicked the door shut as he spun John around, wrapped his arms around his waist, and kissed him deeply. John's hands flew to Sherlock's neck, and they kissed desperately. John tugged Sherlock backwards, and they stumbled slowly up the stairs, their kisses hot and heavy as they moved. When they got to the landing, Sherlock pressed John into the wall and kissed ravenously down his neck.

"Sherlock," murmured John, "we have to…Mrs. Hudson…might…"

"I don't think you want to involve Mrs. Hudson in this," said Sherlock huskily as he kissed along John's throat, nipping lightly at the skin.

"No, I mean…"

John's head fell back against the wall as Sherlock's hands began to wander south.

"She could hear…"

"And…?"

"Bedroom."

John couldn't muster any other words. He grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his shirt and shoved him backward up the stairs. Sherlock smirked and grabbed John by the hand, tugging him inside the flat. He slammed the door shut and pressed John into the opposite wall, kissing him deeply. John's body grew hotter as they kissed, and he moved his hips up into Sherlock. Coherent thought slowly gave way to desperate desire as he pushed Sherlock toward what was now  _their_  bedroom. Sherlock grabbed the bottom of his jumper and tore it from John's head. John's fingers flew over the buttons of his shirt. The jacket fell into a soaked heap on the floor. Sherlock helped John peel the wet shirt off his body, his damp curls hanging around his face as he continued to kiss John.

They left a trail of clothes in the hallway that ended at the edge of the bed. Sherlock's legs wrapped tightly around John's back, and he had to scramble quickly for the lubricant. Sherlock was urging John to hurry the hell up, and his fingers shook as they moved slowly inside of Sherlock. John sweat as he kissed Sherlock's knee, moaning at the sensation around his digits. All John could think was that  _he_  was the only person who ever had the opportunity to do this. Sherlock was impatient, but when John determined that he could take it, John gave him everything. Every inch of his body was for him to touch, tease, kiss, whatever he wanted. When they became one person, something changed inside both of them. John realized then that he really was in this for life. How could he not be, when Sherlock was so willing, offering everything he had in exchange for John's kisses?

John made certain that, for the first time in his life, Sherlock wasn't thinking. They were just moving and feeling together, sweat rolling down John's back, dripping off Sherlock's temple. John kissed him as he moved inside of him, whispering Sherlock's name into his mouth. He couldn't imagine living without Sherlock's moans or his body so hot beneath his. When they climaxed, it was at the same time, both of them utterly enraptured with one another. John saw nothing but stars behind his eyes, could feel nothing except for Sherlock's body tightening around him, heard nothing except for Sherlock moaning his name into his ear.

He was loathe to move, but eventually, John had to pull himself out of Sherlock, after several minutes of panting. He lay on the bed next to him, steadying his breathing. His head was somewhere on the moon, and he was utterly dizzy with pleasure. He turned his head to stare at Sherlock who had his eyes closed.

"That was your first time," said John quietly. "Did I prepare you enough? It felt rather fast."

"I assure you that I was happy to take you inside of me, John," replied Sherlock simply, his eyes fluttering open. "Although I believe that I will be sore tomorrow."

"Some endorphins will do you good, then," said John with a smirk.

Sherlock glanced at John and then down at their bodies. They were both covered in sweat, semen dripping on their chests, with lubricant running down Sherlock's thighs. John wasn't sure how he had managed to get some of the lubricant in Sherlock's hair, or why there was semen he was wiping off of his stubble. He grimaced slightly because the smell had always turned him off.

"Is it always this messy?" asked Sherlock with a slight frown.

"I think so," said John, laughing lightly. "Do I need to take you to the shower now?"

"Oh, I insist," murmured Sherlock as he leaned over to kiss John on the neck.

* * *

Richard's funeral was a dismal affair. John chipped in because he felt incredibly guilty. He wondered if he could have said something different, what would have happened if he hadn't kissed him. Richard had very few assets, had died intestate, so what little he did have John ensured went to giving him a decent headstone, something that wouldn't be forgotten in the little cemetery. Sherlock accompanied him, even though John insisted he could do it on his own. Sherlock didn't even say anything, just put on a black suit and got into the car with him. Richard's therapist, his boss, and one other colleague attended as well. Besides them, there was no one else. Sherlock knew nothing of Moriarty's family, his past, so there was no one who might have remembered the consulting criminal. (Does he still have a family somewhere?)

The minister said a few short words, and no one spoke. Once the casket was lowered into the ground, his therapist left a small bouquet. John remained, staring at the plot for some time. Sherlock stood next to him saying nothing, simply waiting until John was ready to go.

"Do you hate me?" asked John softly.

"Why would I hate you, John?" replied Sherlock.

"Because I touched him," said John. "For just a moment, I—"

"Don't," said Sherlock sternly. "Please don't."

John sighed, his shoulders sagging with the weight of heavy guilt on his shoulders. Sherlock said nothing more, but wrapped an arm around his shoulders. John leaned into him and spent a few more minutes with his eyes fixed on the headstone, waiting, wondering what could have been different.

"Are you all right?" asked Sherlock quietly.

John paused, frowning deeply as he stepped forward and placed his hand on the headstone, running his fingers over the stone. The inscription had Richard's name, dates, and the simple phrase, "A beloved friend." He turned to look at Sherlock and said, "I'm relieved. He had nothing, Sherlock. He—"

John shut his eyes and took a shuddering breath in. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and led him away from the grave. John kept his nose buried in Sherlock's neck, even during the car ride home. He didn't want to open his eyes and find out that the world was still turning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only have one more after this! This it technically the last chapter, and I have an epilogue for you next. Thanks to everyone for the kudos and comments! The chapter title is a song by Adele.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are always opportunities to rebuild when you have a foundation of trust.

"Please, John."

"No." (Why am I with a petulant mad man?)

"It would make me happy."

"Peace and quiet would make me happy, but that's not going to happen, is it?" (What am I doing here?)

"I'll be quiet."

"No, you won't. You'll shout and throw things about before you throw yourself onto the sofa to sulk." (Should I give in?)

"I will not."

"You did last time." (Do I have the willpower for this?)

"John, I'm losing my mind."

"I don't care." (Why do I love him?)

"John…"

"Don't look at me like that." (How can I love a lunatic?)

"Like what?"

"Your face. Right now." (How can I resist?)

"I don't understand, John. I just want  _one_  game of Cluedo."

"I said no," said John firmly.

He stood and pulled the knife out of the wall, grabbing the Cluedo board and binning it in the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes and flung himself onto the sofa, his dressing gown pooling around his waist. John sighed and returned to the sitting room.

"I don't see why we don't just have sex," said Sherlock casually as he picked a medical journal off the coffee table.

"Because we did it in the shower," said John, "about a half hour ago."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what is your point? I fail to see how that is relevant from my current desire to partake in sexual intercourse with you."

"Because there's a thing called a sexual refractory period, Sherlock," said John sternly. "And I'm not twenty years old anymore. So you have to give it some time."

"By 'it,' I'm assuming you mean your penis."

"I…"

John sighed and tried to glare at Sherlock as best he could, who was smiling as he flipped through the journal, not really reading any of the articles.

"Don't look so damn pleased with yourself," said John irritably as he lifted Sherlock's feet and sat, laying Sherlock's feet back across his lap.

"I had no idea I had fucked all the energy out of you," muttered Sherlock as he held up the journal to hide his face.

"That's not what I said," said John, grabbing the journal from Sherlock's hands and throwing it aside.

"You're the doctor," said Sherlock simply, "so I'll just have to take your word for it that you need at least a half hour."

John had been going slowly but surely insane. A very large pile of paperwork had brought Sherlock officially back to life, but their blogs were both dead. They had blown up when the news first broke a few weeks back. Now, however, they had yet to receive any clients worth their time. Only a few desperate ones had come calling, and Sherlock had refused to take them. His reputation still hadn't recovered, and Lestrade was uneasy about giving Sherlock anything. This meant that Sherlock spent a lot of time in the flat waiting for John to come home from work.

"Fine," said John suddenly. "Get over here."

Sherlock sat up, a satisfied smirk on his face, when his mobile rang. He rolled his eyes, walked across the table, and snatched it off the desk. He eyed it for a moment before answering.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said swiftly.

A smile broke out on his face, and he turned to John. He said a few short words and then hung up the mobile, looking very pleased.

"Who was that?" asked John.

"Lestrade," said Sherlock quickly as he went to the bedroom and began changing into a suit.

John followed and said, "Has he got something for you?"

"Sixth in a series of serial killings," said Sherlock, buttoning up his shirt. "The Chief Inspector has  _requested_  me."

"Requested you?"

"Well, an inquiry did reveal that I had no involvement in any of the cases I solved. So, perhaps, this is my opportunity to begin restoring my reputation."

John smiled and walked around the bed as Sherlock pulled on his jacket. He straightened and brushed off a bit of lint.

"If you're willing," said Sherlock, "I'd appreciate your company."

"I get to write whatever pun I want as the title of my blog post," said John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed past John to pull on his coat in the hall. John chuckled as he put on his jacket, and they were out the door, with Sherlock tying his scarf.

Lestrade was waiting at the crime scene, with Anderson glaring from the sidelines, and Donovan looking everywhere except at the two of them. The Chief Inspector stood not far away, eyeing Sherlock closely. The body a man was on the ground, his eyes closed, and a y-shaped cut on his chest, stitched up as if he'd had an autopsy performed.

"We're still working on identifying him," said Lestrade, "but he's just like the others."

"I've read it in the paper," said Sherlock quickly as he stared down at the body. "A skilled cut, must be an experienced doctor or surgeon who does it, wouldn't you say, John?"

They both knelt beside the body, and Lestrade waited patiently, his arms crossed.

"Looks like," said John.

"Let's assume," sad Sherlock, "that this victim, like the others, was cut open, had his heart removed, and then been stitched up like the others."

"Anderson said there are no finger prints on the body," said Lestrade as Sherlock pulled out his pocket magnifying glass.

"I'd prefer to utilize actual intelligence to determine whether or not Anderson made a proper observation for once in his life."

Anderson scoffed and opened his mouth to say something, but Donovan placed her hand on his shoulder. John locked eyes with her, and he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. There was a deep frown on her face, and she looked terribly distraught. (How guilty is she?)

"So how are things?" asked Lestrade.

John opened his mouth to speak, and Sherlock stared at Lestrade as if he'd grown a second head.

"Are you making small talk?" asked Sherlock incredulously.

"I'm just talking," said Lestrade.

"Don't," said Sherlock sharply. "I need to think, and that's difficult enough as it is with Anderson breathing in my general direction."

John rolled his eyes and stood next to Lestrade, watching Sherlock as he worked. Sherlock continued to snap at Anderson, while Donovan took down the notes of all Sherlock's deductions about the body. John could only marvel at how fantastic and brilliant it was.

"Things are finally getting back to normal," muttered Lestrade as Anderson stormed off, and Sherlock smiled smugly.

"If this is what you call 'normal,'" said John, smiling at Sherlock.

"This is going to be very fun," said Sherlock as he took John by the arm to lead him away from the crime scene.

"Where to now?" he asked.

"Home," said Sherlock lightly.

"But the case—"

"Lestrade will call back when he needs more," said Sherlock as they got into a cab. "I think you've rested enough, don't you, Dr. Watson?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left kudos, comments, and bookmarked tis story! Thanks also to my dear beta Emily who finds all my dumb errors! I really appreciate all the support and encouragement. Soon, I should be posting another story. I've written a few chapters, but I need to write several to make sure I'm heading in the right direction (I believe it'll be longer, and the chapters are much longer as well). I'm writing it a bit differently, but I hope it'll be enjoyable to anyone who liked this story as well. Keep and eye out, and thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank the lovely Eternal Contradiction and my dear friend Emily for reading this over and giving me great notes! I’d be lost without their thoughts! The title for this story is taken from the song “Sinnerman” by Nina Simone, which you all heard in Reichenbach when they are going to the trial. I highly recommend listening to the full song (it’s about ten minutes). It’s a great piece of jazz. There will be plenty of sex, violence, language, and general bit of debauchery before this story is over. You can also check this story out at ff.net. Also, if the formatting is screwy, that is because I am new to this website and have absolutely no idea how to use it.


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